Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/adriansavagenoveOOmaleiala 


See  page  325 


YOU      HAVE      MADE      ME     ONCE      MORE      IN      LOVE     WITH1    THE 
GOODNESS      OF     GOD.      IN      LOVE     WITH      LIFE" 


Adrian. 
Savage 


A  Novel 


BY  LUCAS    MALET 

AUTHOR   OF 

"SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY" 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

MCMXI 


J 


COPYRIGHT.   1811.    BY    HARPER    ft    BROTHERS 


PRINTED   IN   THE    UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 
PUBLISHED   OCTOBER.    1811 


TO 
GABRIELLE    FRANCESCA   LILIAN    MARY 

THIS    BOOK     IS     DEDICATED.    UPON 

HER    BIRTHDAY.   AS  A   LOVE-TOKEN 

BY 

LUCAS   MALET 

THE   ORCHARD.   EVERSLEY  AUGUST    28.    1911 


222r0C0 


CONTENTS 


I 

CONCERNING  THE  DEAD  AND  THE  LIVING 

CHAP.  PAGK 

I.  In  which  the  Reader  is  Invited  to  Make  the 

Acquaintance   of  the   Hero  of  this  Book         3 

II.  Wherein  a  Very  Modern  Young  Man  Tells  a 

Time-Honored  Tale  with  but  Small  En- 
couragement        10 

III.  Telling    How    Rene*    Dax    Cooked    a    Savory 

Omelette,  and  Why  Gabrielle  St.  Leger 
Looked  Out  of  an  Open  Window  at  Past 
Midnight 24 

IV.  Climbing  the  Ladder 44 

V.  Passages   from  Joanna   Smyrthwaite's   Locked 

Book 61 

VI.  Some  Consequences  of  Putting  New  Wine  into 

Old  Bottles 75 

VII.  In  which  Adrian  Helps  to  Throw  Earth  into 

an  Open  Grave 83 

VIII.  A  Modern  Antigone 94 


II 
THE  DRAWINGS  UPON  THE  WALL 

I.  A  Waster in 

II.  The  Return  of  the  Native 122 

v 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 
CHAP. 

III.  A  Straining  op  Friendship *3r 

IV.  In  which  Adrian  Sets  Forth  in  Pursuit  of  the 

Further  Reason x4o 

V.  With    Deborah,   under   an    Oak    in    the    Parc 

Monceau *48 

VI.  Recording  the  Vigil  of  a  Scarlet  Homunculus 

AND   ARISTIDES   THE   JUST 165 


III 

THE  OTHER  SIDE 

I.  Recording  a  Brave  Man's  Effort  to  Cultivate 

His  Private  Garden        181 

II.  A  Strategic  Movement  which  Secures  Victory 

while  Simulating  Retreat 192 

III.  In  which  Euterpe  is  Called  Upon  to  Play  the 

Part  of  Interpreter 210 

IV.  Some    Passages    from    Joanna     Smyrthwaite's 

Locked  Book 219 

V.  In  which  Adrian's  Knowledge  of  Some  Inhabi- 

tants op  the  Tower  House  is  Sensibly  In- 
creased       226 

VI.  Which  Plays  Seesaw  between  a  Game  of  Lawn 

Tennis  and  a  Prodigal  Son         239 

VII.  Pistols  or  Politeness — for  Two 252 

VIII.  "Nuit  db  Mai" 26o 

IV 
THE  FOLLY  OF  THE  WISE 

I.  Re-enter  a  Wayfaring  Gossip 37S 

II.  In  the  Track  of  the  Brain-storm 292 

III.  In  which  the  Storm  Breaks 303 

IV.  On  the  Heights   .... 

3r4 

V.  Db  Profundis ,„„ 

6*1 

VI 


CONTENTS 
v 

THE  LIVING  AND  THE  DEAD 

CHAP.  PAGB 

I.  Some     Passages     from    Joanna     Smyrthwaite's 

Locked  Book 333 

II.  Recording  a  Sisterly  Effort  to  Let   in  Light  347 

III.  In   which   Joanna   Embraces   a   Phantom   Bliss  362 

IV.  "Come  Unto  These  Yellow  Sands"      ....  376 

V.  In  which  Adrian  Makes  Disquieting  Acquaint- 

ance with  the  Long  Arm  of  Coincidence  .     384 

VI.  Concerning  a  Curse,  and  the   Manner  of  Its 

Going  Home  to  Roost 396 

VII.  Some    Passages    from    Joanna    Smyrthwaite's 

Locked  Book 413 

VIII.  In  which  a  Strong  Man  Adopts  a  Very  Simple 

Method    of    Clearing    His    Own    Path    of 
Thorns       425 

IX.  Wherein  Adrian  Savage  Succeeds  in  Awaken- 

ing La  Belle  au  Bois  Dormant     ....    447 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

I  WILL  ask  my  readers  kindly  to  understand  that 
this  book  is  altogether  a  work  of  fiction.  The 
characters  it  portrays,  their  circumstances  and  the 
episodes  in  which  they  play  a  part,  are  my  own  invention. 

Every  sincere  and  scientific  student  of  human  nature 
and  the  social  scene  must,  of  necessity,  depend  upon 
direct  observation  of  life  for  his  general  types — the  said 
types  being  the  composite  photographs  with  which  study 
and  observation  have  supplied  him.  But,  for  the  shap- 
ing of  individual  characters  out  of  the  said  types,  he 
should,  in  my  opinion,  rely  exclusively  upon  his  imagin- 
ation and  his  sense  of  dramatic  coherence.  Exactly  in 
proportion  as  he  does  this  can  he  claim  to  be  a  true 
artist.  Since  the  novel,  to  be  a  work  of  art,  must  be 
impersonal,  neither  autobiographical  nor  biographical. — I 
am  not,  of  course,  speaking  of  the  historical  novel, 
whether  the  history  involved  be  ancient  6r  contemporary, 
nor  am  I  speaking  of  an  admitted  satire. 

I  wish  further  to  assure  my  readers  that  the  names  of 
my  characters  have  been  selected  at  random;  and  be- 
long, certainly  in  sequence  of  Christian  and  surname, 
to  no  persons  with  whom  I  am,  or  ever  have  been, 
acquainted.  I  may  also  add  that  although  I  have  often 
visited  Stourmouth  and  its  neighborhood — of  which  I  am 
very  fond — my  knowledge  of  the  social  life  of  the  dis- 
trict is  of  the  smallest,  while  my  knowledge  of  its  mu- 
nicipal and  commercial  life  is  nil. 

Finally,  the  lamented  disappearance  of  La  Gioconda, 
from  the  Salon  Carr6  of  the  Louvre,  took  place  when  the 
whole  of  my  manuscript  was  already  in  the  hands  of  the 
printers.  May  I  express  a  pious  hope  that  this  most 
seductive  of  women  will  be  safely  restored  to  her  former 
dwelling-place  before  any  copies  of  my  novel  are  in  the 
hands  of  the  public  ? 

Lucas  Malet. 
August  28,  191 1 


I 

CONCERNING  THE   DEAD   AND  THE   LIVING 


ADRIAN   SAVAGE 


CHAPTER  I 

IN    WHICH    THE    READER    IS    INVITED    TO    MAKE    THE    AC- 
QUAINTANCE   OF   THE    HERO    OF   THIS    BOOK 

ADRIAN  SAVAGE  — a  noticeably  distinct,  well- 
i  groomed,  and  well-set-up  figure,  showing  dark  in 
the  harsh  light  of  the  winter  afternoon  against  the  pallor 
of  the  asphalt — walked  rapidly  across  the  Pont  des  Arts, 
and,  about  half-way  along  the  Quai  Malaquais,  turned 
in  under  the  archway  of  a  cavernous  porte-cochere.  The 
bare,  spindly  planes  and  poplars,  in  the  center  of  the 
courtyard  to  which  this  gave  access,  shivered  visibly. 
Doubtless  the  lightly  clad,  lichen-stained  nymph  to 
whom  they  acted  as  body-guard  would  have  shivered 
likewise  had  her  stony  substance  permitted,  for  icicles 
fringed  the  lip  of  her  tilted  pitcher  and  caked  the  edge 
of  the  shell-shaped  basin  into  which,  under  normal  con- 
ditions, its  waters  dripped  with  a  not  unmusical  tinkle. 
Yet  the  atmosphere  of  the  courtyard  struck  the  young 
man  as  almost  mild  compared  with  that  of  the  quay  out- 
side, along  which  the  northeasterly  wind  scourged  bitingly. 
Upon  the  farther  bank  of  the  turgid,  gray -green  river  the 
buildings  of  the  Louvre  stood  out  pale  and  stark  against 
a  sullen  backing  of  snow-cloud.  For  the  past  week 
Paris  had  cowered,  sunless,  in  the  grip  of  a  black  frost. 
If  those  leaden  heavens  would  only  elect  to  unload  them- 

3 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

selves  of  their  burden  the  weather  might  take  up !  To 
Adrian  Savage,  in  excellent  health  and  prosperous  cir- 
cumstances, the  cold  in  itself  mattered  nothing — would, 
indeed,  rather  have  acted  as  a  stimulus  to  his  chronic 
appreciation  of  the  joy  of  living  but  for  the  fact  that  he 
had  to-day  been  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  called  upon 
to  leave  Paris  and  bid  farewell  to  one  of  its  inhabitants 
eminently  and  even  perplexingly  dear  to  him.  Having, 
for  all  his  young  masculine  optimism,  the  artist's  exag- 
gerated sensibility  to  the  aspects  of  outward  things,  and 
equally  exaggerated  capacity  for  conceiving — highly  im- 
probable^— disaster,  it  troubled  him  to  make  his  adieux 
under  such  forbidding  meteorologic  conditions.  His  re- 
grets and  alarms  would,  he  felt,  have  been  decidedly  les- 
sened had  kindly  sunshine  set  a  golden  frame  about  his 
parting  impressions. 

Nevertheless,  as — raising  his  hat  gallantly  to  the  con- 
cierge, seated  in  her  glass-fronted  lodge,  swathed  mummy- 
like in  shawls  and  mufflers — he  turned  shortly  to  the  left 
along  the  backs  of  the  tall,  gray  houses,  a  high  expecta- 
tion, at  once  delightful  and  disturbing,  took  possession 
of  him  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  sensations.  For  the 
past  eighteen  months — ever  since,  indeed,  the  distress- 
ingly sudden  death  of  his  old  friend,  the  popular  painter 
Horace  St.  Leger— he  had  made  this  selfsame  little 
pilgrimage  as  frequently  as  respectful  discretion  per- 
mitted. And  invariably,  at  the  selfsame  spot — it  was 
where,  as  he  noted  amusedly,  between  the  third  and 
fourth  of  the  heavily  barred  ground-floor  windows  a 
square  leaden  water-pipe,  running  the  height  of  the  house 
wall  from  the  parapet  of  the  steep  slated  roof,  reached 
the  grating  in  the  pavement— this  quickening  of  his 
whole  being  came  upon  him,  however  occupied  his 
thoughts  might  previously  have  been  with  his  literary 
work,  or  with  the  conduct  of  the  bi-monthly  review  of 
which  he  was  at  once  assistant  editor  and  part  pro- 
prietor.    This  quickening  remained  with  him,  moreover, 

4 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

as  he  entered  a  doorway  set  in  the  near  corner  of  the 
courtyard  and  ran  up  the  flights  of  waxed  wooden  stairs 
to  the  third  story.  In  no  country  of  the  civilized  world, 
it  may  be  confidently  asserted,  do  affairs  of  the  heart, 
even  when  virtuous,  command  more  indulgent  sym- 
pathy than  in  France.  It  followed  that  Adrian  enter- 
tained his  own  emotions  with  the  same  eager  and  friendly 
amenity  which  he  would  have  extended  to  those  of 
another  man  in  like  case.  He  was  not  in  the  least  con- 
temptuous or  suspicious  of  them.  He  permitted  cyni- 
cism no  smallest  word  in  the  matter.  On  the  contrary, 
he  hailed  the  present  ebullience  of  his  affections  as 
among  those  captivating  surprises  of  earthly  existence 
upon  which  one  should  warmly  congratulate  oneself, 
having  liveliest  cause  for  rejoicing. 

To-day,  as  usual,  there  was  a  brief  pause  before  the 
door  of  the  vestibule  opened.  A  space  of  delicious 
anxiety — carrying  him  back  to  the  poignant  hopes  and 
despairs  of  childhood,  when  the  fate  of  some  anticipated 
treat  hangs  in  the  balance — while  he  inquired  of  the 
trim  waiting-maid  whether  her  mistress  was  or  was  not 
receiving.  Followed  by  that  other  moment,  childlike, 
too,  in  its  deliciously  troubled  emotion  and  vision,  when, 
passing  from  the  corridor  into  the  warm,  vaguely  fragrant 
atmosphere  of  the  long,  pale,  rose-red  and  canvas- 
colored  drawing-room,  he  once  again  beheld  the  lady  of 
his  desires  and  of  his  heart. 

From  the  foregoing  it  may  be  deduced,  and  rightly, 
that  Adrian  Savage  was  of  a  romantic  temperament, 
and  that  he  was  very  much  in  love.  Let  it  be  immedi- 
ately added,  however,  that  he  was  a  young  gentleman 
whose  head,  to  employ  a  vulgarism,  was  most  em- 
phatically screwed  on  the  right  way.  Only  child  of  an 
eminent  English  physician  of  good  family,  long  resident 
in  Paris,  and  of  a  French  mother — a  woman  of  great 
personal  charm  and  some  distinction  as  a  poetess — he 
had  inherited,  along  with  a  comfortable  little  income  of 

5 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

about  eighteen  hundred  pounds  a  year,  a  certain  sagacity 
and  decision  in  dealing  with  men  and  with  affairs,  as  well 
as  quick  sensibility  in  relation  to  beauty  and  to  drama. 
Artist  and  practical  man  of  the  world  went,  for  the  most 
part,  very  happily  hand  and  hand  in  him.  At  moments, 
however,  they  quarreled,  to  the  production  of  compli- 
cations. 

The  death  of  both  his  parents  occurred  during  his 
tenth  year,  leaving  him  to  the  guardianship  of  a  de- 
voted French  grandmother.  Under  the  terms  of  Doctor 
Savage's  will  one-third  of  his  income  was  to  be  ap- 
plied to  the  boy's  maintenance  and  education  until  his 
majority,  the  remaining  two-thirds  being  set  aside  to 
accumulate  until  his  twenty -third  birthday.  "At  that 
age,"  so  the  document  in  question  stated,  "  I  apprehend 
that  my  son  will  have  discovered  in  what  direction  his 
talents  and  aptitudes  lie.  I  do  not  wish  to  fetter  his 
choice  of  a  profession ;  still  I  do  most  earnestly  request 
him  not  to  squander  the  considerable  sum  of  money  into 
possession  of  which  he  will  then  come,  but  to  spend  it 
judiciously,  in  the  service  of  those  talents  and  aptitudes, 
with  the  purpose  of  securing  for  himself  an  honorable 
and  distinguished  career."  This  idea  that  something 
definite,  something  notable  even  in  the  matter  of  achieve- 
ment was  demanded  from  him,  clung  to  the  boy  through 
school  and  college,  acting — since  he  was  healthy,  high- 
spirited,  and  confident — as  a  wholesome  incentive  to 
effort.  Even  before  fulfilling  his  term  of  military  ser- 
vice, Adrian  had  decided  what  his  career  should  be. 
Letters  called  him  with  no  uncertain  voice.  He  would 
be  a  writer — dramatist,  novelist,  an  artist  in  psychology, 
in  touch  at  all  points  with  the  inexhaustible  riches  of 
the  human  scene.  His  father's  science,  his  mother's 
poetic  gift,  should  combine,  so  he  believed,  to  produce 
in  him  a  very  special  vocation.  His  ambitions  at  this 
period  were  colossal.  The  raw  material  of  his  selected 
art  appeared  to  him  nothing  less  than  the  fee-simple 

6 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

of  creation.  He  planned  literary  undertakings  beside 
which  the  numerically  formidable  volumes  of  Balzac  or 
Zola  shriveled  to  positive  next-to-nothingness.  Fortu- 
nately fuller  knowledge  begot  a  juster  sense  of  propor- 
tion, while  his  native  shrewdness  lent  a  hand  to  knock- 
ing extravagant  conceptions  on  the  head.  By  the  time 
he  came  into  possession  of  the  comfortable  sum  of 
money  that  had  accumulated  during  his  minority  and  he 
was  free  to  follow  his  bent,  Adrian  found  himself  con- 
tented with  quite  modest  first  steps  in  authorship.  For 
a  couple  of  years  he  traveled,  resolved  to  broaden  his 
acquaintance  with  men  and  things,  to  get  some  clear 
first-hand  impressions  both  of  the  ancient,  deep-rooted 
civilizations  of  the  East  and  the  amazing  mushroom 
growths  of  America.  On  his  return  to  Paris,  it  so  hap- 
pened that  a  leading  bi-monthy  review,  which  had 
shown  hospitality  to  his  maiden  literary  productions, 
stood  badly  in  need  of  financial  support.  Adrian  bought 
a  preponderating  interest  in  it;  and  by  the  time  in 
question — namely,  the  winter  of  190-  and  the  dawn  of 
his  thirtieth  year — had  contrived  to  make  it  not  only 
a  powerful  factor  in  contemporary  criticism  and  literary 
output,  but  a  solid  commercial  success. 

To  be  nine-and-twenty,  the  owner  of  a  well-favored 
person,  of  admitted  talent  and  business  capacity,  and 
to  be  honestly  in  love,  is  surely  to  be  as  happily  circum- 
stanced as  mortal  man  can  reasonably  ask  to  be.  That 
the  course  of  true  love  should  not  run  quite  smooth,  that 
the  beloved  one  should  prove  elusive,  difficult  of  access, 
that  obstacles  should  encumber  the  path  of  achieve- 
ment, that  mists  of  doubt  and  uncertainty  should  drift 
across  the  face  of  the  situation,  obscuring  its  issues, 
only  served  in  Adrian's  case  to  heighten  interest  and 
whet  appetite.  The  last  thing  he  asked  was  that  the 
affair  should  move  on  fashionable,  conventional  lines,  a 
matter  for  newspaper  paragraphs  and  social  gossip. 
The  justifying  charm  of  it,  to  his  thinking,  resided  in 

7 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

precisely  those  elements  of  uncertainty  and  difficulty. 
If,  in  the  twentieth  century,  a  man  is  to  subscribe  to  the 
constraints  of  marriage  at  all,  let  it  at  least  be  in  some 
sort  marriage  by  capture!  And,  as  he  told  himself, 
what  man  worth  the  name,  let  alone  what  artist,  what 
poet — vowed  by  his  calling  to  confession  of  the  transcen- 
dental, the  eternally  mystic  and  sacred  in  this  appar- 
ently most  primitive,  even  savage,  of  human  relations — 
would  choose  to  capture  his  exquisite  prey  amid  the 
blatant  materialism,  the  vulgar  noise  and  chaffer  of  the 
modern  social  highway;  rather  than  pursue  it  through 
the  shifting  lights  and  shadows  of  mysterious  woodland 
places,  the  dread  of  its  final  escape  always  upon  him, 
till  his  feet  were  weary  with  running,  and  his  hands  with 
dividing  the  thick,  leafy  branches,  his  ears,  all  the 
while,  tormented  by  the  baffling,  piercing  sweetness 
of  the  half -heard  Pipes  of  Pan? 

Not  infrequently  Adrian  would  draw  himself  up  short 
in  the  midst  of  such  rhapsodizings,  humorously  con- 
scious that  the  artistic  side  of  his  nature  had  got  the  bit, 
so  to  speak,  very  much  between  its  teeth  and  was  run- 
ning away  altogether  too  violently  with  its  soberer, 
more  practical,  stable  companion.  For,  as  he  frankly 
admitted,  to  the  ordinary  observer  it  must  seem  a 
rather  ludicrously  far  cry  from  Madame  St.  Leger's 
pleasant,  well-found  flat,  in  the  center  of  cosmopolitan 
twentieth-century  Paris,  to  the  arcana  of  pagan  myth 
and  legend!  Yet,  speaking  quite  soberly  and  truth- 
fully, it  was  of  such  ancient,  secret,  and  symbolic  things 
he  instinctively  thought  when  looking  into  Gabrielle 
St.  Leger's  golden-brown  eyes  and  noting  the  ironic 
loveliness  of  her  smiling  lips.  That  was  just  the  delight, 
just  the  provocation,  just  what  differentiated  her  from 
all  other  women  of  his  acquaintance,  from  any  other 
woman  who,  so  far,  had  touched  his  heart  or  stirred  his 
senses.  Her  recondite  beauty— to  quote  the  phrase 
of  this  analytical  lover— challenged  his  imagination  with 

8 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

the  excitement  of  something  hidden;  though  whether 
hidden  by  intentional  and  delicate  malice,  or  merely  by 
lack  of  opporunity  for  self -declaration,  he  was  at  a  loss 
to  determine.  Daughter,  wife,  mother,  widow — young 
though  she  still  was,  she  had  sounded  the  gamut  of 
woman's  most  vital  experiences.  Yet,  it  seemed  to 
him,  although  she  had  fulfilled,  and  was  fulfilling,  the 
obligations  incident  to  each  of  these  several  conditions 
in  so  gracious  and  irreproachable  a  manner,  her  soul 
had  never  been  effectively  snared  in  the  meshes  of  any 
net.  Good  Catholic,  good  housewife,  sympathetic  host- 
ess, intelligent  and  discriminating  critic,  still — he  might 
be  a  fool  for  his  pains,  but  what  artist  doesn't  know 
better  than  to  under-rate  the  fine  uses  of  folly? — he 
believed  her  to  be,  either  by  fate  or  by  choice,  essentially 
a  Belle  au  Bois  Dormant;  and  further  believed  himself, 
thanks  to  the  workings  of  constitutional  masculine 
vanity,  to  be  the  princely  adventurer  designed  by  provi- 
dence for  the  far  from  disagreeable  duty  of  waking  her 
up.  Only  just  now  providence,  to  put  it  roughly,  ap- 
peared to  have  quite  other  fish  for  him  to  fry.  And  it 
was  under  compulsion  of  such  prospective  fish-frying 
that  he  sought  her  apartment  overlooking  the  Quai 
Malaquais,  this  afternoon,  reluctantly  to  bid  her  fare- 
well. 


CHAPTER  II 

WHEREIN    A    VERY    MODERN    YOUNG    MAN    TELLS    A    TIME- 
HONORED   TALE    WITH    BUT    SMALL    ENCOURAGEMENT 

DISAPPOINTMENT  awaited  him.  Madame  St. 
Leger  was  receiving;  but,  to  his  chagrin,  another 
visitor  had  forestalled  his  advent — witness  a  woman's 
fur-lined  wrap  lying  across  the  lid  of  the  painted  Vene- 
tian chest  in  the  corridor.  Adrian  bestowed  a  glance 
of  veritable  hatred  upon  the  garment.  Then,  recogniz- 
ing it,  felt  a  little  better.  For  it  belonged  to  Anastasia 
Beauchamp,  an  old  friend,  not  unsympathetic,  as  he 
believed,  to  his  suit. 

Sympathy,  however,  was  hardly  the  note  struck  on 
his  entrance.  Miss  Beauchamp  and  Madame  St.  Leger 
stood  in  the  vacant  rose-red  carpeted  space  at  the  far 
end  of  the  long  room,  in  front  of  the  open  fire.  Both 
were  silent;  yet  Adrian  was  aware  somehow  they  had 
only  that  moment  ceased  speaking,  and  that  their  con- 
versation had  been  momentous  in  character.  The  high 
tension  of  it  held  them  to  the  point  of  their  permitting 
him  to  walk  the  whole  length  of  the  room  before  turning 
to  acknowledge  his  presence.  This  was  damping  for 
Adrian,  who,  like  most  agreeable  young  men,  thought 
himself  entitled  to  and  well  worth  a  welcome.  But  not 
a  bit  of  it!  The  elder  woman — high-shouldered,  short- 
waisted,  an  admittedly  liberal  sixty,  her  arms  dispro- 
portionate in  their  length  and  thinness  to  her  low 
stature — continued  to  hold  her  hostess's  right  hand  in 
both  hers  and  look  at  her  intently,  as  though  enforcing 
some  request  or  admonition. 

10 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Miss  Beauchamp,  it  may  be  noted  in  passing,  affected 
a  certain  juvenility  of  apparel.  To-day  she  wore  a 
short  purple  serge  walking-suit.  A  velvet  toque  of 
the  same  color,  trimmed  with  sable  and  blush-roses, 
perched  itself  on  her  elaborately  dressed  hair,  which,  in 
obedience  to  the  then  prevailing  fashion,  showed  not 
gray  but  a  full  coppery  red.  Her  eyebrows  and  eyelids 
were  darkly  penciled,  and  powder  essayed  to  mask 
wrinkles  and  sallowness  of  complexion.  Yet  the  very 
frankness  of  these  artifices  tended  to  rob  them  of 
offense;  or,  in  any  serious  degree — the  first  surprise  of 
them  over — to  mar  the  genial  promise  of  her  quick  blue- 
gray  eyes  and  her  thin,  witty,  strongly  marked,  rather 
masculine  countenance.  Adrian  usually  accepted  her 
superficial  bedizenments  without  criticism,  as  just  part 
of  her  excellent,  if  somewhat  bizarre,  personality.  But 
to-day — his  temper  being  slightly  ruffled — under  the 
cold,  diffused  light  of  the  range  of  tall  windows,  they 
started,  to  his  seeing,  into  quite  unpardonable  promi- 
nence— a  prominence  punctuated  by  the  grace  and  the 
proudly  youthful  aspect  of  the  woman  beside  her. 

Madame  St.  Leger  was  clothed  in  unrelieved  black, 
from  the  frill,  high  about  her  long  throat,  to  the  hem  of 
her  trailing  cling  skirts.  Over  her  head  she  had  thrown  a 
black  gauze  scarf,  soberly  framing  her  heart-shaped  face 
in  fine  semi-transparent  folds,  and  obscuring  the  bur- 
nished lights  in  her  brown  hair,  which  stood  away  in 
soft,  dense  ridges  on  either  side  the  parting  and  was 
gathered  into  a  loose  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head.  Her 
white  skin  was  very  clear,  a  faint  scarlet  tinge  showing 
through  it  in  the  round  of  either  cheek.  But  just  now 
she  was  pale.  And  this,  along  with  the  framing  black 
gauze  scarf,  developed  the  subtle  likeness  which — as 
Adrian  held — she  bore,  in  the  proportions  of  her  face  and 
molding  of  it,  to  Leonardo's  world-famous  "Mona  Lisa" 
in  Salon  Carre  of  the  Louvre.  The  strange  recondite 
quality  of  her  beauty,  and  the  challenge  it  offered,  were 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

peculiarly  in  evidence;  thereby  making,  as  he  reflected, 
cruel,  though  unconscious,  havoc  of  the  juvenile  pre- 
tensions of  poor  Anastasia.  And  this  was  painful  to 
him.  So  that  in  wishing— as  he  incontestably  did — the 
said  Anastasia  absent,  his  wish  may  have  been  dictated 
almost  as  much  by  chivalry  as  by  selfishness. 

All  of  which  conflicting  perceptions  and  emotions 
tended  to  rob  him  of  his  habitual  and  happy  self-assur- 
ance. His  voice  took  on  quite  plaintive  tones,  and  his 
gay  brown  eyes  a  quite  pathetic  and  orphaned  expres- 
sion, as  he  exclaimed: 

"Ah!  I  see  that  I  disturb  you.  I  am  in  the  way. 
My  visit  is  inconvenient  to  you!" 

The  faint  tinge  of  scarlet  leaped  into  Madame  St. 
Leger's  cheeks,  and  an  engaging  dimple  indicated  itself  at 
the  left  corner  of  her  closed  and  smiling  mouth.  Mean- 
while Anastasia  Beauchamp  broke  forth  impetuously: 

"  No,  no!  On  the  contrary,  it  is  I  who  am  in  the  way, 
though  our  dear,  exquisite  friend  is  too  amiable  to  tell 
me  so.  I  have  victimized  her  far  too  long  already.  I 
have  bored  her  distractingly." 

"Indeed,  it  is  impossible  you  should  ever  bore  me," 
the  younger  woman  put  in  quietly. 

"Then  I  have  done  worse.  I  have  just  a  little  bit 
angered  you,"  Miss  Beauchamp  declared.  "Oh!  I  know 
I  have  been  richly  irritating,  preaching  antiquated  doc- 
trines of  moderation  in  thought  and  conduct.  But 
'les  verites  betes'  remain  lles  veritts  vraies,'  now  as  ever. 
With  that  I  go.  Ma  toute  chere  et  belle,  I  leave  you. 
And,"  she  added,  turning  to  Adrian,  "  I  leave  you,  you 
lucky  young  man,  in  possession.  Retrieve  my  failures! 
Be  as  amusing  as  I  have  been  intolerable. — But  see,  one 
moment,  since  the  opportunity  offers.  Tell  me,  you  are 
going  to  accept  those  articles  on  the  Stage  in  the  Eigh- 
teenth Century,  by  my  poor  little  prot€git  Lewis  Bye- 
water,  for  publication  in.  the  Review?" 

"Am  I  not  always  ready  to  attempt  the  impossible 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

for  your  sake,  dear  Mademoiselle?"  Adrian  inquired 
gallantly. 

"Hum — hum — is  it  as  bad  as  that,  then?  Are  his 
articles  so  impossible  ?  Byewater  has  soaked  himself  in 
his  subject.  He  has  been  tremendously  conscientious. 
He  has  taken  immense  trouble  over  them." 

"He  has  taken  immensely  too  much;  that  is  just  the 
worry.  His  conscience  protudes  at  every  sentence.  It 
prods,  it  positively  impales  you!"  The  speaker  raised 
his  neat  black  eyebrows  and  broad  shoulders  in  delicate 
apology.  "Alas!  he  is  pompous,  pedantic,  I  grieve  to 
report;  he  is  heavy,  very  heavy,  your  little  Byewater. 
The  eighteenth-century  stage  was  many  things  which  it 
had,  no  doubt,  much  better  not  have  been,  but  was  it 
heavy?     Assuredly  not." 

"Ah!  poor  child,  he  is  young.  He  is  nervous.  He 
has  not  command  of  his  style  yet.  You  should  be 
lenient.  Give  him  opportunity  and  encouragement,  and 
he  will  find  himself,  will  rise  to  the  possibilities  of  his 
own  talent.  After  all,"  she  added,  "every  writer  must 
begin  some  time  and  somewhere!" 

"But  not  necessarily  in  the  pages  of  my  Review," 
Adrian  protested.  "With  every  desire  to  be  philan- 
thropic, I  dare  not  convert  it  into  a  creche,  a  foundling 
hospital,  for  the  maintenance  of  ponderous  literary 
infants.  My  subscribers  might,  not  unreasonably, 
object." 

"  You  floated  Ren6  Dax." 

"But  he  is  a  genius,"  Madame  St.  Leger  remarked 
quietly. 

"Yes,"  Adrian  asserted,  "there  could  be  no  doubt 
about  his  value  from  the  first.     He  is  extraordinary." 

"He  is  extraordinarily  perverted,"  cried  Miss  Beau- 
champ. 

"  I  am  much  attached  to  M.  Rene"  Dax."  Madame  St. 
Leger  spoke  deliberately;  and  a  little  silence  followed, 
as  when  people  listen,  almost  anxiously,  to  the  sound  of 

13 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

a  pebble  dropped  into  a  well,  trying  to  hear  it  touch 
bottom.  Miss  Beauchamp  was  the  first  to  break  it.  She 
did  so  laughing. 

"In  that  case,  ma  toute  belle,  you  also  are  perverse, 
though  I  trust  not  yet  perverted.  It  amounts  to  this, 
then,"  she  continued,  pulling  her  long  gloves  up  her 
thin  arms:  "I  am  to  dispose  of  poor  Byewater,  shatter 
his  hopes,  crush  his  ambitions,  tell  him,  in  short,  that  he 
won't  do.  Just  Heaven,  you  who  have  arrived,  how 
soon  you  become  cruel!"  She  looked  from  the  hand- 
some black-bearded  young  man  to  the  beautiful  enig- 
matic young  woman,  and  her  witty,  accentuated  face 
bore  a  singular  expression.  "Good-by,  charming  Ga- 
brielle,"  she  said.  "  Forgive  me  if  I  have  been  tedious, 
for  truly  I  am  devotedly  fond  of  you.  And  good-by  to 
you,  Mr.  Savage.  Yes!  I  go  to  dispose  of  the  ill-fated 
Byewater.  But  ah!  ah!  if  you  only  knew  all  I  have 
done  this  afternoon,  or  tried  to  do,  to  serve  you!" 

Whereupon  Adrian,  smitted  by  sudden  apprehension 
of  deep  and  possibly  dangerous  issues,  followed  her  to 
the  door,  crying  eagerly: 

"  Wait,  I  implore  you,  dear  Mademoiselle.  Do  not  be 
too  precipitate  in  disposing  of  Byewater.  I  may  have 
underrated  the  worth  of  his  articles.  I  will  re-read,  I 
will  reconsider.  Nothing  presses.  I  have  to  leave  Paris 
for  a  week  or  two.  Let  the  matter  rest  till  my  return. 
I  may  find  it  possible,  after  all,  to  accept  them." 

Then,  the  door  closed,  he  came  back  and  stood  on  the 
vacant  space  of  rose-red  carpet  in  the  pleasant  glow  of 
the  fire. 

"She  is  a  clever  woman,"  he  said,  reflectively.  "She 
has  cornered  me,  and  that  is  not  quite  fair — on  the 
Review.  For  they  constitute  a  veritable  atrocity  of 
dullness,  those  articles  by  her  miserable  little  Byewater." 

"  It  is  part  of  her  code  of  friendship— it  holds  true  all 
round.     If  she  helps  others — " 

Madame  St.  Leger  left  her  sentence  unfinished  and, 

14 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

glancing  with  a  hint  of  veiled  mockery  at  her  guest,  sat 
down  in  a  carven,  high-backed,  rose-cushioned  chair  at 
right  angles  to  the  fireplace,  and  picked  up  a  bundle  of 
white  needlework  from  the  little  table  beside  it. 

"You  mean  that  Miss  Beauchamp  does  her  best  for 
me,  too?"  Adrian  inquired,  tentatively. 

But  the  lady  was  too  busy  unfolding  her  work,  finding 
needle  and  thimble  to  make  answer. 

"I  foresee  that  I  shall  be  compelled  to  print  the 
wretched  little  Byewater  in  the  end,"  he  murmured,  still 
tentatively. 

"Did  you  not  tell  Miss  Beauchamp  you  were  going 
away?"  Gabrielle  asked.  She  had  no  desire  to  continue 
the  conversation  on  this  particular  note. 

"Yes,  I  leave  Paris  to-night.  That  is  my  excuse  for 
asking  to  see  you  this  afternoon.  But  I  feel  that  my 
visit  is  ill-timed.  I  observed  directly  I  came  in  that  you 
looked  a  little  fatigued.  I  fear  you  are  suffering. 
Ought  you  to  undertake  the  exertion  of  receiving  vis- 
itors? I  doubt  it.  Yet  I  should  have  been  desolated 
had  you  refused  me.  For  I  leave,  as  I  say,  to-night  in 
response  to  a  sudden  call  to  England  upon  business — 
that  of  certain  members  of  my  father's  family.  I  am 
barely  acquainted  with  them.  But  they  claim  my 
assistance,  and  I  cannot  refuse  it.  I  could  not  do  other- 
wise than  tell  you  of  this  unexpected  journey,  could  I? 
It  distresses  me  to  find  you  suffering." 

Gabrielle  had  looked  at  him  smiling,  her  lips  closed, 
the  little  dimple  again  showing  in  her  left  cheek.  His 
eagerness  and  volubility  were  diverting  to  her.  They 
enabled  her  to  think  of  him  as  still  very  young;  and  she 
quite  earnestly  wished  thus  to  think  of  him.  To  do  so 
made  for  security.  At  this  period  Madame  St.  Leger 
put  a  very  high  value  upon  security. 

"But,  indeed,"  she  said,  "I  am  quite  well.  The  cor- 
ridor is  chilly,  and  I  have  been  going  to  and  fro  prepar- 
ing a  little  fete  for  Bette.     She   has  her  friends,  our 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

neighbor  Madame  Bernard's  two  little  girls,  from  the 
floor  below,  to  spend  the  afternoon  with  her.  My 
mother  is  now  kindly  guarding  the  small  flock.  But 
I  could  not  burden  her  with  preliminaries. — I  am  quite 
well,  and,  for  the  moment,  I  am  quite  at  leisure.  Bring 
a  chair.  Sit  down.  It  is  for  me  to  condole  with  you 
rather  than  for  you  to  condole  with  me,"  she  went  on, 
in  her  quiet  voice,  "for  this  is  far  from  the  moment  one 
would  select  for  a  cross-Channel  journey!  But  then  you 
are  more  English  than  French  in  all  that.  Hereditary 
instincts  assert  themselves  in  you.  You  have  the 
islander's  inborn  sense  of  being  cramped  by  the  modest 
proportions  of  his  island,  and  craving  to  step  off  the 
edge  of  it  into  space." 

The  young  man  placed  his  hat  on  the  floor,  opened  the 
fronts  of  his  overcoat,  and  drew  a  chair  up  to  the  near 
side  of  the  low  work-table  whence  he  commanded  an 
uninterrupted  view  of  his  hostess's  charming  person. 

"That  is  right,"  she  said.  "Now  tell  me  about  this 
sudden  journey.  Is  it  for  long  ?  When  may  we  expect 
you  back?" 

"What  do  I  know?"  he  replied,  spreading  out  his 
hands  quickly.  "  It  may  be  a  matter  of  days.  It  may 
be  a  matter  of  weeks.  I  am  ignorant  of  the  amount  of 
business  entailed.  The  whole  thing  has  come  upon  me 
as  so  complete  a  surprise.  What  induced  my  venerable 
cousin  to  select  me  as  his  executor  remains  inexplicable. 
I  remember  seeing  him  when,  as  a  child,  I  visited  Eng- 
land with  my  parents.  I  remember,  also,  that  he  filled 
me  with  alarm  and  melancholy.  He  lived  in  a  big, 
solemn  house  on  the  outskirts  of  a  great,  noisy,  dirty! 
manufacturing  town  in  Yorkshire.  It  was  impressed 
upon  me  that  I  must  behave  in  his  presence  with  eminent 
circumspection,  since  he  was  very  religious,  very  intel- 
lectual. I  fear  I  was  an  impertinent  little  boy.  He  ap- 
peared to  me  to  worship  a  most  odious  deity,  who  per- 
mitted no  amusements,  no  holidays,  no  laughter;   while 

16 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

his  conversation — my  cousin's,  I  mean,  not  that  of  the 
Almighty — struck  me  as  quite  the  dullest  I  had  ever 
listened  to.  I  cried,  very  loud  and  very  often,  to  the 
consternation  of  the  whole  establishment,  and  demanded 
to  be  taken  home  to  Paris  at  once.  I  never  saw  him 
again  until  three  years  ago,  when  he  spent  a  few  days 
here,  on  a  return  journey  from  Carlsbad.  As  in  duty 
bound,  I  did  what  I  could  to  render  their  stay  agreeable 
to  him  and  his  companions."  Adrian's  expression  be- 
came at  once  apologetic  and  merry.  "My  efforts  were 
not,  as  I  supposed,  crowned  with  at  all  flattering  success. 
My  venerable  cousin  still  filled  me  with  melancholy  and 
alarm.  In  face  of  his  immense  seriousness  I  appeared  to 
myself  as  some  capering  harlequin.  Therefore  it  is,  as 
you  will  readily  understand,  with  unqualified  amazement 
that  I  learn  he  has  intrusted  the  administration  of  his 
very  considerable  estate  to  my  care.  Really,  his  faith 
in  me  constitutes  a  vastly  embarrassing  compliment. 
I  wish  to  heaven  he  had  formed  a  less  exalted  estimate 
of  my  probity  and  business  acumen  and  looked  elsewhere 
for  an  executor!" 

"He  had  no  children,  poor  man?"  Madame  St.  Leger 
inquired,  sympathetically. 

"On  the  contrary,  he  leaves  twin  daughters.  And  it 
is  in  conjunction  with  the — briefly — elder  of  these  two 
ladies  that  I  am  required  to  act." 

Gabrielle  moved  slightly  in  her  chair.  Her  eyelids 
were  half-closed.  She  looked  at  the  young  man  side- 
ways without  turning  her  head.  Her  resemblance  to 
the  Mona  Lisa  was  startling  just  then ;  but  it  was  Mona 
Lisa  in  a  most  mischievous  humor. 

"  In  many  ways  you  cannot  fail  to  find  that  interest- 
ing," she  said.  "You  are  a  professional  psychologist, 
a  student  of  character.  And  then,  too,  it  is  your  nature 
to  be  untiring  in  kindness  and  helpfulness  to  women." 

"To  women  of  flesh  and  blood,  yes,  possibly,  if  they 
are  amiable  enough  to  accept  my  services,"  Adrian  re- 

17 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

turned,  somewhat  warmly,  a  lover's  resentment  of  any 
ascription  of  benevolence  toward  the  sex,  merely  as 
such,  all  agog  in  him.  "  But  are  these  ladies  really  of 
flesh  and  blood?  They  affected  me,  when  I  last  saw 
them,  rather  as  shadowy  and  harassed  abstractions. 
I  gazed  at  them  in  wonder.  They  are  not  old .  But  have 
they  ever  been  young?  I  doubt  it,  with  so  aggressively 
ethical  and  educative  a  father.  I  was  at  a  loss  how  to 
approach  them;  they  were  so  silent,  so  restrained,  so 
apparently  bankrupt  in  the  small  change  of  social  inter- 
course. If  they  did  not  add  sensibly  to  my  alarm  they 
most  unquestionably  contributed  to  my  melancholy — 
the  humiliating,  disintegrating  melancholy  of  harlequin, 
capering  in  conscious  fatuity  before  an  audience  morally 
and  physically  incapable  of  laughter.  All  this  was  bad 
enough  when  our  connection  was  but  superficial  and 
transitory.  It  will  be  ten  thousand  times  worse  when 
we  are  forced  into  a  position  of  unnatural  intimacy." 

During  this  tirade,  Gabrielle  had  shaken  out  the  thin 
folds  of  her  needlework  and  begun  setting  quick  stitches 
methodically.  Her  hands  were  strong,  square  in  the 
palm  and  the  finger-tips,  finely  modeled,  finely  capable — 
more  fitted,  as  it  might  seem,  to  hold  maul-stick  and 
palate,  or  even  wield  mallet  and  chisel,  than  to  put  rows 
of  small,  even,  snippety  stitches  in  a  child's  lawn 
frock.  If  the  fifteenth  century  and  the  voluptuous 
humanism  of  the  Italian  Renaissance  found  subtle  re- 
flection in  her  face,  the  twentieth  century  and  its  awaken- 
ing militant  feminism  found  expression  in  her  firm  hands 
and  their  promise  of  fearless  and  ready  strength. 

"  I  believe  you  do  both  yourself  and  those  two  ladies 
an  injustice,"  she  said,  her  head  bent  over  her  stitching. 
"It  will  not  be  the  very  least  in  the  character  of  harlequin 
that  they  receive  you,  but  rather  in  that  of  a  savior, 
a  liberator.  For  you  will  be  delightful  to  them— ah! 
I  see  it  all  quite  clearly— tactful,  considerate,  reassuring. 
That  is  your  rdle,  and  you  will  play  it  to  perfection. 

18 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

How  can  you  do  otherwise,  since  not  only  your  sense  of 
dramatic  necessity  but  your  goodness  of  heart  will  be 
engaged  ?  And,  take  it  from  me,  the  enjoyment  will  not 
be  exclusively  on  their  side.  For  you  wilj  find  it  in- 
creasingly inspiring  to  act  providence  to  those  two 
shadowy  old-young  ladies  as  you  see  age  vanish  and 
youth  return.  I  envy  you.  Think  what  an  admirable 
mission  you  are  about  to  fulfil!" 

She  glanced  up  suddenly,  her  eyes  and  the  turn  of  her 
mouth  conveying  to  unhappy  Adrian  a  distracting  com- 
bination of  friendliness — detestable  sentiment,  since  it 
went  no  further! — and  of  raillery.  Then,  her  face  posi- 
tively brilliant  with  mischief,  she  gave  him  a  final  dig. 

"  What  a  thousand  pities,  though,  that  there  are  two  of 
these  abstractions  whom  it  is  your  office  to  materialize! 
Had  there  been  but  one,  how  far  simpler  the  problem 
of  your  position!" 

The  young  man  literally  bounded  on  to  his  feet,  his 
expression  eloquent  of  the  liveliest  repudiation  and  re- 
proach. But  Madame  St.  Leger's  head  was  bent  over 
her  needlework  again.  She  stitched,  stitched,  in  the 
calmest  manner  imaginable,  talking,  meanwhile,  in  a 
quiet,  even  voice. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  we  are  en  fete?  Bette  has  her 
friends,  the  little  Bernards,  to  spend  the  afternoon  with 
her.  It  is  an  excuse  for  keeping  her  indoors.  The 
modern  craze  for  sending  children  out  in  all  weathers 
does  not  appeal  to  me.  I  do  not  believe  in  a  system  of 
hardening." 

"Indeed?"  Adrian  commented,  with  meaning. 

"For  little  girls?"  she  inquired.  "Oh  no,  decidedly 
not.  For  grown-up  people,  especially  for  men  when  they 
are  young  and  in  good  health,  it  may,  of  course,  have 
excellent  results." 

"Ah!"  he  said,  resentfully. 

"They — the  children,  I  mean — are  busy  in  the  dining- 
room  making  rather  terrible  culinary  experiments  with 

19 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

a  new  doll's  cooking  stove.  Shall  we  go  and  see  how 
they  are  getting  on?  I  ought,  perhaps,  to  just  take  a 
look  at  them  and  assure  myself  they  are  not  tiring  my 
mother  too  much.  And  then  they  will  be  distressed, 
my  mother  and  Bette,  if  they  do  not  have  an  opportunity 
to  bid  you  good-by  before  your  journey." 

For  once  Adrian  was  guilty  of  ignoring  his  hostess's 
suggestions.  He  stood  leaning  one  elbow  upon  the 
chimneypiece,  and — above  the  powder  -  blue  Chinese 
jars  and  ivory  godlings  adorning  it — scrutinizing  his  own 
image  in  the  looking-glass.  He  had  just  suffered  a 
sharp  and,  to  his  thinking,  most  uncalled-for  rebuff. 
He  smarted  under  it,  unable  for  the  moment  to  recover 
his  equanimity.  But,  contemplating  the  image  held  by 
the  mirror,  his  soul  received  a  sensible  measure  of  com- 
fort. The  smooth,  opaque,  colorless  complexion;  the 
pointed  black  beard,  so  close  cut  as  in  no  degree  to  hide 
the  forcible  line  of  the  jaw  or  distort  the  excellent  pro- 
portions of  the  mask;  the  thick,  well -trimmed  mus- 
tache, standing  upward  from  the  lip  and  leaving  the 
curved  mouth  free;  the  straight  square-tipped  nose, 
with  its  suggestion  of  pugnacity;  let  alone  the  last  word 
of  contemporary  fashion  in  collar  and  tie  and  heavy  box- 
cloth  overcoat,  the  cut  of  which  lent  itself  to  the  values 
of  a  tall,  well-set-up  figure — all  these  went  to  form  a  far 
from  discouraging  picture.  Yes!  surely  he  was  a  good- 
looking  fellow  enough!  One,  moreover,  with  the  prom- 
ise of  plenty  of  fight  in  him;  daring,  constitutionally 
obstinate,  not  in  the  least  likely  tamely  to  take  "No" 
for  an  answer  once  his  mind  was  made  up. 

Then,  in  thought,  he  made  a  rapid  survey  of  the 
mental,  social,  moral,  and  financial  qualifications  of 
those  who  had  formed  the  circle  of  poor  Horace  St. 
Leger's  friends,  and  who,  during  the  years  of  his  mar- 
riage, had  been  permitted  the  entrie  of  his  house.  A 
varied  and  remarkable  companv  when  one  came  to  re- 
view it— savants,   artists,   politicians,   men   of  letters, 

20 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

musicians,  journalists,  from  octogenarian  M.  de  Cubieres, 
Member  of  the  Senate,  Member  of  the  Academy,  and 
Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  to  that  most  discon- 
certing sport  of  wayward  genius,  vitriolic  caricaturist 
and  elegant  minor  poet,  Rene-  Dax,  whose  immense 
domed  head  and  neat  little  toy  of  a  body  had  won  him 
at  school  the  nickname  of  le  tetard — the  tadpole — an 
appellation  as  descriptive  as  it  was  unflattering,  and 
which — rather  cruelly — had  stuck  to  him  ever  since. 
Adrian  marshaled  all  these,  examined  their  possible 
claims,  and  pronounced  each,  in  turn,  ineligible.  Some, 
thank  Heaven !  were  securely  married  already.  Others, 
though  untrammeled  by  the  bonds  of  holy  matrimony, 
were  trammeled  by  bonds  in  no  wise  holy,  yet  scarcely 
less  prohibitive.  Some  were  too  old,  others  too  young 
or  too  poor.  Some,  as,  for  example,  Rene*  Dax,  were 
altogether  too  eccentric.  True,  Madame  St.  Leger  had 
just  now  declared  herself  warmly  attached  to  him.  But 
wasn't  that  the  best  proof  of  the  absence  of  danger? 
A  woman  doesn't  openly  affirm  her  regard  for  a  man  un- 
less that  regard  is  of  purely  platonic  and  innocuous 
character.  And  then,  after  all — excellent  thought! — 
was  it  not  he,  Adrian  Savage,  who  had  been  admitted 
even  during  the  tragic  hours  of  poor  Horace's  agony; 
who  had  watched  by  the  corpse  through  a  stifling  sum- 
mer night,  a  night  too  hot  for  sleep,  restless  with  the  con- 
tinual sound  of  footsteps  and  voices,  the  smell  of  the 
asphalt  and  of  the  river  ?  And,  since  then,  was  it  not  to 
him  Gabrielle  and  her  mother,  Madame  Vernois,  had 
repeatedly  turned  for  advice  in  matters  of  business  ? 

Fortified  by  which  reflections,  stimulated,  though 
stung,  by  her  teasing,  defiant  of  all  other  possible  and 
impossible  lovers,  the  young  man  wheeled  round  and 
stood  directly  in  front  of  Gabrielle  St.  Leger. 

11  Listen,  tres  chere  Madame  et  amie,  listen  one  little 
minute,"  he  said,  "I  implore  you.  It  is  true  that  I  go 
to-night,  and  for  how  long  a  time  I  am  ignorant,  to  ar- 

21 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

range  the  worldly  affairs  of  my  alarming  old  relative, 
Montagu  Smyrthwaite,  and,  incidentally,  to  adjust  those 
of  his  two  dessicated  daughters.  But  it  is  equally  true 
— for  I  vehemently  refuse  such  a  solution  of  the  problem 
of  my  relation  to  either  of  those  ladies  as  your  words 
seem  to  prefigure — I  repeat,  it  is  equally  true  that  I 
shall  return  at  the  very  earliest  opportunity.  And  re- 
turn in  precisely  the  same  attitude  of  mind  as  I  go — 
namely,  wholly  convinced,  wholly  faithful,  incapable  of 
any  attachment,  indifferent  to  any  sentiment  save  one." 

The  corners  of  his  mouth  quivered  and  his  gay  brown 
eyes  were  misty  with  tears. 

"I  do  not  permit  myself  to  enlarge  upon  the  nature 
of  that  sentiment  to-day.  To  do  so  might  seem  in- 
trusive, even  wanting  in  delicacy.  But  I  do  permit 
myself — your  own  words  have  procured  me  the  oppor- 
tunity— both  to  declare  its  existence  and  to  assert  my 
profound  assurance  of  its  permanence.  You  may  not 
smile  upon  it,  dear  Madame.  You  may  even  regard  it 
as  an  impertinence,  a  nuisance.  Yet  it  is  there — there." 
Adrian  drummed  with  his  closed  fist  upon  the  region  of 
his  heart.  "  It  has  been  there  for  a  longer  period  than  I 
care  to  mention.  And  it  declines  to  be  eradicated. 
While  life  remains,  it  remains,  unalterable.  It  is  idle, 
absolutely  idle,  believe  me,  to  invite  it  to  lessen  or  to 
depart." 

Madame  St.  Leger  had  risen,  too,  laying  her  work  down 
on  the  little  table.  Her  face  was  grave  to  the  point  of 
displeasure.  The  tinge  of  scarlet  had  died  out  in  the 
round  of  her  cheeks.  She  was  about  to  speak,  but  the 
young  man  spread  out  his  hands  with  an  almost  violent 
gesture. 

"No — no,"  he  cried.  "Do  not  say  anything.  Do 
not,  I  entreat,  attempt  to  answer  me.  When  I  came 
here  this  afternoon  I  had  no  thought  of  making  this 
avowal.  It  has  been  forced  from  me,  and  may  well  ap- 
pear to  you  premature.     Therefore  I  entreat  you  for  the 

22 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

moment  ignore  it.  Let  everything  between  us  remain 
as  before.  That  is  so  easy,  you  see,  since  I  am  going 
away.  Only,"  he  added,  more  lightly,  "I  think,  if  you 
will  excuse  me,  I  will  not  join  that  interesting  con- 
ference of  amateur  chefs  in  the  dining-room.  My  mind,  I 
confess,  at  this  moment  is  slightly  preoccupied,  and  I 
might  prove  a  but  clumsy  and  distracted  assistant.  May 
I  ask  you,  therefore,  kindly  to  express  to  your  mother, 
Madame  Vernois,  and  to  the  ravishing  Mademoiselle 
Bette  my  regret  at  being  unable  to  make  my  farewells 
in  person?" 

He  picked  up  his  hat,  buttoned  his  overcoat,  and,  with- 
out attempting  to  take  his  hostess's  hand,  backed  away 
from  her. 

"  With  your  permission  I  shall  write  at  intervals  during 
my  unwilling  exile,"  he  said.  "But  merely  to  recount 
my  adventures — nothing  beyond  my  adventures,  rest 
assured.  These  are  likely  to  possess  a  certain  piquancy, 
I  imagine,  and  may  serve  to  amuse  you." 

Something  of  his  habitual  happy  self-confidence  had 
returned  to  him.  His  air  was  high-spirited,  courteous, 
instinct  with  the  splendid  optimism  of  his  vigorous 
young  manhood,  as  he  paused,  hat  in  hand,  for  a  last 
word  in  the  doorway. 

"  Au  revoir,  ires  chere  Madame,"  he  cried.  "I  go  to 
a  land  of  penetrating  fogs  and  a  household  of  pensive 
abstractions,  but  I  shall  come  back  unaffected  by  either, 
since  I  carry  a  certain  memory,  a  certain  aspiration  in 
my  heart.  Au  revoir.  God  keep  you.  Ah!  very 
surely,  and  with  what  a  quite  infinite  gladness  I  shall 
come  back!" 


CHAPTER  III 

TELLING  HOW  RENE  DAX  COOKED  A  SAVORY  OMELETTE, 
AND  WHY  GABRIELLE  ST.  LEGER  LOOKED  OUT  OF 
AN     OPEN     WINDOW    AT    PAST    MIDNIGHT 

WRAPPED  in  a  wadded  silk  dressing-gown,  with 
frilled  muslin  cape  and  under-sleeves  to  it,  Ga- 
brielle  St.  Leger  had  made  her  nightly  round.  Had 
seen  that  lights  were  switched  off,  fires  safe,  shutters 
bolted,  and  the  maids  duly  retired  to  their  bedchamber. 
Had  embraced  her  mother,  and  looked  into  details  of 
night-light  and  spirit-lamp,  lest  the  excessive  cold 
should  render  some  hot  beverage  advisable  for  the  elder 
lady  in  the  course  of  the  night.  Had  visited  Bette  in 
the  little  room  adjoining  her  own,  and  found  the  child 
snuggled  down  in  her  cot  profoundly  and  deliciously 
asleep.  Then,  being  at  last  free  of  further  obligation 
to  house  or  household,  she  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  of 
her  bedroom  door  and  sat  down  to  think. 

Until  the  day's  work,  its  courtesies  as  well  as  its  duties, 
was  fully  done  she  had  agreed  with  herself  not  to  think. 
For  even  startling  events  and  agitating  experiences 
should,  in  her  opinion,  be  dealt  with  methodically  in  their 
proper  season  and  order,  without  fear  and  without  haste. 
Only  so  could  you  be  both  just  and  clear-sighted  in 
respect  of  them.  All  of  which — had  she  known  it — went 
to  prove  a  theory  of  Adrian's — namely,  that  in  her  case, 
as  in  that  of  so  many  modern  women  between  the  ages  of 
eighteen  and,  say,  eight  and  twenty,  the  reasoning,  the 
intellectual,  rather  than  the  sensuous  and  emotional 
elements  are  in  the  ascendant. 

24 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

And,  indeed,  Gabrielle  honestly  regretted  that  which 
had  to-day  happened  by  the  conversion  of  a  valued 
friend  into  a  declared  lover.  It  was  tiresome,  really 
tiresome  to  a  degree!  Nor  was  her  vexation  lessened 
by  the  fact  that  she  could  not  excuse  herself  of  blame. 
The  catastrophe  had  been  precipitated  by  her  fatal 
habit  of  teasing.  How  constantly  she  resolved  to  be 
staid  and  serious  in  the  presence  of  mankind!  And 
then,  all  uninvited,  a  sprickety,  mischievous  humor 
would  take  her,  making  it  irresistible  delicately  to  poke 
fun  at  those  large,  self-confident,  masculine  creatures, 
to  plague  and  trick  them,  placing  them  at  a  disadvantage ; 
and,  by  so  doing,  to  lower,  for  a  moment  at  least,  the 
crest  of  their  over-weening  self-complacency.  Only  this 
afternoon,  as  she  ruefully  admitted,  she  had  gone  un- 
wisely far,  letting  malice  tread  hard  on  the  heels  of 
mere  mischief.  This  was  what  vexed  her  most.  For 
why  should  malice  find  entrance  in  this  particular  con- 
nection? Gabrielle  would  gladly  have  shirked  the 
question.  But  it  stood  out  in  capital  letters  right  in 
front  of  her,  with  a  portly  note  of  interrogation  at  the 
end  of  the  sentence,  asking,  almost  audibly,  "Why? 
Why?     Why?" 

With  a  movement  of  her  hands,  at  once  impatient  and 
deprecatory,  the  young  woman  lay  back  in  her  long 
chair.  In  part  it  was  Anastasia  Beauchamp's  fault. 
Anastasia  had  come  rather  close,  venturing  to  criticize 
and  to  warn.  Anastasia  was  anti-feministe,  distrustful 
of  modern  tendencies,  of  independence,  of  woman's  life 
and  outlook  in  and  for  itself.  This  genial  unbeliever 
preached  orthodoxy;  this  unmarried  woman — with  a 
legend,  for  there  were  those  who  reported  events  in  the 
far  past — preached  matrimony.  "In  the  end,"  she 
said,  "in  the  end  independence  proved  a  mistake." 
And  not  improbably  she  was  right  in  as  far  as  her  own 
generation  was  concerned.  But  now  the  world  had 
moved  forward  a  big  piece.     The  conditions  were  dif- 

25 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

ferent.  And  in  this,  Gabrielle's  generation,  how,  save 
by  experiment,  could  you  possibly  prove  that  inde- 
pendence mightn't  very  much  pay?  Whereupon  her 
thought  began  to  march  down  alluring  avenues  of 
speculation  guarded  by  vague,  masterful  theories  of 
feminine  supremacy. 

The  crimson  shades  of  the  electric  lights  above  her 
dressing-table,  the  crimson  silk  coverlet  of  her  bed,  gave 
an  effect  of  warmth  and  comfort  to  the  otherwise  cool- 
colored  room,  its  carved,  white  furniture  and  blue-green 
carpet,  curtains,  and  walls.  Formerly  this  had  been 
a  guest-chamber.  But,  since  her  husband's  death, 
Gabrielle  had  taken  it  for  her  own.  Her  former  room 
was  too  peopled  with  experiences  and  memories  for 
solitude.  And,  like  all  strong  and  self-realized  natures, 
Gabrielle  demanded  solitude  at  times — a  place  not  only 
for  rest,  but  for  those  intimate  unwitnessed  battles 
which  necessarily  beset  the  strong. 

Just  now,  however,  the  desired  solitude  was  almost 
too  complete.  Presently  her  attention  began  to  be 
occupied  by  it  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  things.  In 
the  stillness  of  the  sleeping  house  she  heard  the  wind 
crying  along  the  steep  house-roofs  and  hissing  against 
the  windows.  There  was  a  note  of  homelessness,  even 
of  desolation,  in  the  sound.  Involuntarily  her  thought 
returned  upon  Adrian  Savage.  She  saw  the  mail 
steamer  thrashing  out  from  Calais  harbor  into  the  black 
welter  of  blizzard  and  winter  sea.  Saw,  too,  the  young 
man's  momentarily  tremulous  lips  and  tearful  eyes  as 
he  declared  his  love.  And  the  subsequent  fine  recovery 
of  his  natural  gladness  of  aspect,  as,  standing  hat  in  hand 
in  the  doorway,  a  notably  gallant  and  handsome  figure, 
he  had  asserted  his  speedy  return  rather  than  bade  her 
good-by. 

For  quite  an  appreciable  space  of  time  she  gazed  at 
this  visualized  recollection  of  him.     Then,  shutting  her 

26 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

eyes,  she  turned  her  back  on  it,  and  lay  sideways  in  the 
long  chair.  She  determined  to  be  rid  of  it.  Almost 
fiercely  she  told  it  to  go.  For  it  was  useless  to  deny  that 
it  both  charmed  and  moved  her.  And  she  didn't  want 
that  and  all  which  it  involved  and  stood  for.  Earnestly, 
honestly,  she  didn't  want  it! — Ah!  what  misguided 
temerity  to  have  teased!  For  she  wanted— yes  she  did, 
Anastasia  Beauchamp's  middle-aged  wisdom  notwith- 
standing— to  retain  her  but  lately  acquired  freedom; 
not  only  the  repose,  but  the  stimulating  clarity  of  mind 
and  obligation,  the  conscious  development  of  personality 
and  broadening  of  thought  which  went  along  with  that 
freedom.  She  had  passed  straight  from  the  obedience 
of  young  girlhood  to  the  obedience  of  young  wifehood. 
Now  she  wanted  to  belong  wholly  and  exclusively  to 
herself,  not  to  be  the  property  of  any  man,  however 
devoted,  talented,  charming — not  ever — not  certainly 
for  a  long  while  yet. 

This  craving  for  the  conservation  of  her  freedom  took 
its  rise  neither  in  the  fact  that  the  memory  of  her  hus- 
band was  hateful  to  her,  nor  that  it  was  so  dear  as  to 
render  the  thought  of  a  second  marriage  a  desecration, 
shocking  to  the  heart.  She  remembered  Horace  St. 
Leger  with  affection,  in  many  respects  with  gratitude. 
He  had  been  considerate,  watchfully  protective  of  her 
beauty  and  her  youth.  As  the  mother  of  his  child  he 
had  yielded  her  a  worship  touched  by  an  immense  ten- 
derness. He  had  been  irreproachably  loyal  and  in- 
dulgent. All  this  she  admitted  and  valued.  Wasn't  it, 
indeed,  very  much  ? — The  circumstances  of  her  marriage, 
moreover,  had  not  been  without  their  romantic  aspect. 
Madame  Vernois,  after  the  death  of  her  husband,  who 
held  a  professorship  at  the  College  de  France,  both 
from  motives  of  economy  and  the  wish  to  be  near  her 
own  family,  had  retired  to  her  native  Chambery,  in  the 
Haute  Savoie.  It  was  in  this  strangely  picturesque 
town,  rich  in  remarkable  buildings  and  in  traditions  both 
3  27 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

literary  and  historic,  guarded  by  fantastic  mountains 
and  traversed  by  unruly  torrents,  that  Gabrielle  Vernois 
passed  her  childhood — mixing  in  a  society  both  refined 
and  devout  though  somewhat  prejudiced  and  circum- 
scribed of  outlook,  the  members  of  it  being  more  distin- 
guished for  the  magnitude  of  their  united  ages  and  the 
multitude  of  their  quarterings,  than  for  the  length  of 
their  purses  or  their  acquaintance  with  the  world  as  it 
now  actually  is. 

And  it  was  here,  too — she  being  barely  nineteen,  he 
little  short  of  fifty — that  Horace  St.  Leger  had  met  her; 
had  been  captivated  by  her  singular  type  of  beauty  and 
the  delicious  combination  of  her  innocence  and  ready 
wit.  He  was  something  of  a  connoisseur  in  women. 
Now  he  surely  discovered  a  unique  specimen!  Natu- 
rally he  wished  to  acquire  that  specimen  for  himself. 
The  years  of  his  apprenticeship  were  over.  He  had 
made  a  name;  had,  within  the  limits  of  his  capacity, 
evolved  his  style  and  mastered  the  exacting  technique  of 
his  art.  He  was  young  for  his  age,  too ;  well-preserved, 
in  the  plentitude  of  his  popularity.  He  had  made  money 
and  he  had  spent  money,  but  he  had  never,  to  all  appear- 
ance, been  more  secure  of  continuing  to  make.  He  could 
well  afford  to  indulge  his  tastes,  even  when  they  took  the 
expensive  form  of  a  serious  establishment  and  a  seductive 
wife.  He  hastened  back  to  Paris,  put  a  final  and  satis- 
factory termination  to  a  connection  which  had  long  lost 
its  pristine  ardors  and  begun  to  pall  upon  him,  and  then 
returned  to  ChambeVy,  officially  to  offer  this  enchanting 
child  of  nineteen  the  sum  total  of  his  life's  achievement 
in  respect  of  fame,  fortune,  social  opportunity,  along 
with  that  suavity  of  temper  and  outlook  which  result 
from  the  successful  cultivation  of  a  facile  talent  un- 
troubled by  the  torments  and  dislocations  of  genius. 

The  young  girl's  dowry  was  of  the  slenderest.  The 
marriage  offered  not  only  a  secure  and  agreeable  future 
for  herself;    but— and  this  influenced  her  decision   at 

28 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

least  equally — relief  to  her  mother  from  straitened 
means  and  their  attendant  deprivations  and  anxieties. 
The  subtle  unrest,  the  haunting  ambitions  and  curiosi- 
ties of  her  awakening  womanhood  stirred  in  her,  while 
the  disparity  of  age  between  herself  and  her  suitor 
seemed,  to  her  inexperience,  a  matter  of  indifference. 
The  marriage  took  place  in  due  course,  and  ostensibly  all 
went  well.  Yet,  looking  back  upon  it  now,  sitting  here 
alone  in  her  bedchamber  while  the  wind  cried  along 
the  house-roofs  and  Paris  cowered  in  the  grip  of  the 
bitter  frost,  Gabrielle  St.  Leger  knew  that  she  had 
learned  life,  the  actualities  both  of  human  nature  and 
civilized  society,  in  a  hard  enough  school. 

For  indisputably  the  thirty  years'  difference  in  age 
between  herself  and  her  husband,  which,  before  mar- 
riage, had  seemed  so  negligible  a  quantity,  entailed  con- 
sequences that  intruded  themselves  at  every  turn.  St. 
Leger's  character  and  opinions  were  fixed,  crystallized, 
insusceptible  of  change,  while  her  own  were  still,  if  not 
in  the  actually  fluid,  yet  in  the  distinctly  malleable  stage. 
This  rendered  any  equality  of  intercourse  impossible. 
Her  husband  treated  her  as  a  child,  whose  ignorance  one 
finds  exquisitely  entertaining,  and  enlightens  with  high, 
if  indulgent,  amusement — his  attitude  toward  her  quasi- 
paternal  in  its  serene  assumption  of  omniscience.  Yet, 
being  quick-witted  and  observant,  she  soon  perceived 
that  assumption  did  not  receive,  by  any  means,  uni- 
versal indorsement.  Among  the  younger  generation  of 
the  artistic  and  literary  brotherhood  it  became  evident 
to  her  that,  though  the  man  was  held  in  affection,  the 
painter  was  regarded  as  a  bit  of  a  charlatan,  destitute  of 
illumination  and  sincerity  of  method — as  one  who  had 
never  possessed  the  courage  or  the  capacity  to  attempt 
any  lifting  the  veil  of  Isis  and  penetration  of  the  mys- 
teries it  conceals.  Nor  was  she  slow  to  learn,  hearing 
the  witty  talk  and  covert  allusions  of  the  dinner-table 
and    studio — although    her    guests    made    honest    and 

29 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

honorable  effort  to  restrain  their  tongues  in  her  presence 
— that  the  rule  of  faith  and  morals  which  had  been  so 
earnestly  enjoined  upon  her  in  her  childhood  was  very 
much  of  a  dead  letter  to  the  average  man  and  woman  of 
the  world.  The  general  scheme  of  existence  was  a  far 
more  complicated  affair  than  she  had  been  taught  to 
suppose.  The  dividing  line  between  the  sheep  and  the 
goats  was  by  no  means  always  easy  of  recognition.  De- 
lightful people  did  very  shady,  not  to  say  very  out- 
rageous and  abominable,  things.  She  suffered  moments 
of  cruel  perspicacity  and  consequent  disgust,  during 
which  she  was  tempted  to  accuse  even  her  dearly  loved 
mother  of  having  purposely  misled  and  lied  to  her. 
For  was  it  not  idle  to  suppose  that  her  husband  differed 
from  other  men?  Or  that  his  passion  for  her  was 
unique,  without  predecessors?  Was  it  not  very  much 
more  reasonable  to  see,  in  the  perfection  of  tactful 
delicacy  with  which  he  treated  her,  proof  positive  of  a 
large  and  varied  emotional  experience  ? 

Then  followed  a  further  discovery.  In  this  marriage 
she  had  looked  confidently  for  a  brilliant  future.  But, 
in  plain  truth,  what  future  remained?  St.  Leger  had 
reached  the  zenith  of  his  career.  He  was  well  on  in 
middle  life.  The  only  possible  future  for  him  lay  in  the 
direction  of  decline  and  decay.  She  recognized  that  her 
mission,  therefore,  was  not  to  share  a  brightening  glory, 
but  to  maintain  a  fondly  cherished  illusion,  to  soften  the 
asperities  of  his  declension  and  mask  the  approach  of 
age  and  lessening  powers  by  the  stimulus  of  her  own 
radiant  youth. 

One  by  one  these  revelations  came  upon  her  with  the 
shock  of  detected  and  abiding  deceptions.  Her  pride 
suffered.  Her  jealous  respect  for  her  own  intelligence 
and  personality  was  rudely  shaken.  But  she  kept  her 
own  counsel,  making  neither  complaint  nor  outcry. 
Silently,  after  a  struggle  which  left  its  impress  in  the 
irony  of  her  smiling  eyes  and  lips,  she  faced  each  dis- 

30 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

co very  in  turn  and  reckoned  with  it.  Then  she  ranged 
herself,  dismissing  once  and  for  all,  as  she  believed, 
high-flown  heroic  conceptions  of  love  between  man  and 
woman,  accepting  human  nature  and  human  relations 
as  they  actually  are  and  forgiving — though  it  shrewdly 
taxed  her  longanimity — all  those  pious  frauds  which, 
from  time  immemorial,  civilized  parents  and  teachers 
have  supposed  it  their  duty  to  practise  upon  the  children 
whom  they  at  once  adore  and  betray. 

It  remained  to  her  credit,  however,  that,  even  in  the 
most  searching  hours  of  disillusionment,  Gabrielle  did 
not  lose  her  sense  of  justice  or  fail  to  discriminate,  to  the 
best  of  her  ability,  between  that  for  which  the  society  in 
which  he  moved  and  that  for  which  her  husband,  per- 
sonally, should  be  held  responsible.  So  doing  she  ad- 
mitted, and  gladly,  that  any  legitimate  cause  of  quarrel 
with  him  was  of  the  smallest.  Taking  all  the  circum- 
stances of  the  case  into  account,  he  had  behaved  well, 
even  admirably,  by  her.  The  way  of  the  world,  its 
habits  and  standards,  the  constitution  of  human  nature, 
rather  than  Horace  St.  Leger,  was  in  fault.  And  it  was 
precisely  on  that  finding,  as  she  told  herself  now,  having 
reasoned  it  out  sitting  here  alone  in  her  bedchamber, 
that  she  deprecated  any  change  of  estate,  the  contraction 
of  any  fresh  and  intimate  relation.  If  she  had  not 
known  it  might  have  been  different — and  there  she 
paused  a  little  wistfully,  sorrowfully.  But  she  did 
know,  and  therefore  she  could  not  consent  to  part  with 
her  freedom,  with  the  repose  of  mind  and  the  large  lib- 
erty of  thought  and  action  her  freedom  permitted  her. 
Her  body  was  her  own.  Her  soul,  her  emotions  were  her 
own.  Almost  fiercely  she  protested  they  should  remain 
so.  Hence  it  was  useless,  useless,  that  Anastasia  should 
warn,  or  that  the  image  of  Adrian  Savage  should  solicit 
her,  standing  there  handsome,  devoted,  and  how  mad- 
deningly self-confident!  She  could  not  listen.  She 
would  not  listen.     No,  no,  simply  she  would  not. 

3i 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Having  thus  analyzed  the  position,  summed  up  and 
delivered  judgment  upon  it,  clearly  it  was  the  part  of 
common-sense  to  go  to  bed  and  to  sleep.  Gabrielle 
stretched  out  her  hand  for  the  crystal  and  silver  rosary 
lying,  along  with  her  missal  and  certain  books  of  devo- 
tion, on  a  whatnot  beside  her  chair.  She  fingered  it,  mak- 
ing an  effort  to  concentrate  and  compose  her  thoughts. 
But  they  refused  to  be  composed,  darting  hither  and 
thither  like  a  flight  of  startled  birds.  Restlessness  still 
possessed  her,  making  recitation  of  the  hallowed  invo- 
cations which  mark  each  separate  bead  trench  perilously 
on  profanity.  She  let  the  rosary  drop  and  pressed  her 
hands  over  her  eyes.  Certain  words,  over  and  above 
the  disturbing  ones  spoken  by  Adrian  Savage,  haunted 
her.  For  the  agitations  of  the  afternoon  had  not  ended 
with  his  declaration  and  exit.  A  subsequent  episode 
had  contributed,  in  no  small  degree,  to  produce  her 
existing  state  of  perturbation. 

It  had  happened  thus.  A  few  minutes  after  Adrian 
left  her,  going  out  on  to  the  gallery,  which  runs  the 
length  of  the  flat  from  the  vestibule  and  studio  at  one 
end  to  the  dining-room  and  offices  at  the  other,  she  had 
been  struck  by  the  strangely  cold,  haggard  light  filling  it. 
The  ceiling  stared,  while  details  of  pictures  and  china 
upon  the  walls,  the  graceful  statuette  of  a  slim,  unclad 
boy  carrying  a  hooded  hawk  on  his  wrist,  and,  farther  on, 
a  portrait  bust  of  Horace  St.  Leger — each  set  on  an 
antique  porphyry  column — started  into  peculiar  and 
shadowless  prominence.  The  windows  of  the  gallery 
gave  on  to  the  courtyard.  Gabrielle  held  aside  one  of 
the  vitrine  curtains  and  looked  out. 

Snow  was  falling.  Countless  thin,  fine  flakes  circled 
and  eddied,  drifted  earthward,  and  swept  up  again 
caught  in  some  local  draught.  Through  the  lace  work  of 
black,  quivering  branches  the  backs  of  the  houses  across 
the  courtyard  showed  pallid  and  gaunt.  Far  below,  on 
the  frost-bitten   grass-plat,   the   lichen-stained   nymph 

32 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

tilted  her  ice-bound  pitcher  above  the  frozen  basin. 
The  familiar  scene  in  its  present  aspect  was  indescribably 
dreary,  provocative  of  doubting,  distrustful  thoughts. 
With  a  movement  of  impatience,  her  expression  hard, 
her  charming  lips  compressed,  the  young  woman  turned 
away,  conscious  of  being  foolishly,  unreasonably  out 
of  conceit  with  most  things.  Doing  so,  the  bust  of  her 
husband  confronted  her,  seeming  to  watch  her  from  out 
the  blank  cavities  in  the  eyeballs  which  so  uncomfor- 
tably travesty  sight.  An  expression  of  amused,  slightly 
cynical  inquiry  rested  upon  the  sculptured  face.  This, 
in  her  present  somewhat  irritable  and  over-sensitized 
condition,  she  resented,  finding  it  singularly  unpleasant. 
She  moved  rapidly  away  along  the  gallery.  Then  stopped 
dead. 

From  the  dining-room  came  a  joyful  racket.  But,  to 
her  astonishment,  cutting  through  the  rippling  staccato 
of  children's  talk  and  laughter,  came  the  grave  tones  of 
a  man's  voice.  Hearing  which,  steady  of  nerve  and 
strong  though  she  was,  Gabrielle  turned  faint.  The 
blood  left  her  heart.  She  made  for  the  nearest  window- 
seat  and  sank  down  on  it. — Horace  was  there,  in  the 
dining-room,  playing  with  Bette  and  her  little  friends  as 
he  so  dearly  loved  to  play.  The  fact  of  her  widowhood, 
the  past  eighteen  months  of  freedom,  became  as  though 
they  were  not.  In  attitude  and  sentiment  she  found 
herself  relegated  to  an  earlier  period,  against  which  her 
whole  nature  rose  in  rebellion.  She  realized  how  quite 
horribly  little  she  wanted  to  see  Horace  again,  or  renew 
his  and  her  former  relation.  Realized  her  jealousy  of 
him  in  respect  of  her  child.  Realized,  indeed,  that,  not- 
withstanding his  many  attractive  qualities  and  invari- 
able kindness,  his  resurrection  must  represent  to  her 
something  trenching  upon  despair. 

Yet  it  was  cruel,  she  knew,  heartless,  to  feel  thus.  She 
glanced  in  positive  mental  torment  at  the  marble  bust. 
It  still  watched  her,  through  the  haggard  clarity  of  the 

33 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

snow-glare,  with  the  same  effect  of  cynically  question- 
ing criticism  and  amusement,  almost,  so  she  thought, 
as  one  should  say:  "My  dear,  be  consoled.  Even  had  I 
the  will,  I  am  powerless  to  return  and  to  claim  you. 
Follow  your  own  fancy.  Make  yourself  perfectly  easy. 
Have  no  fear  but  that  I  am  very  effectually  wiped  out 
of  your  life." 

The  blood  rushed  back  to  her  heart.  Her  face  flamed. 
She  felt  humiliated,  as  though  detected  in  a  secret  vil- 
lainy, in  an  act  of  detestable  meanness.  It  is  an  ugly 
thing  to  pillage  the  dead.  But  she  was  also  very  angry, 
for  she  understood  what  had  happened.  Not  Horace — 
poor,  undesired  Horace — but  Adrian  Savage  was  there 
in  the  dining-room.  He  had  changed  his  mind  after 
all;  and,  in  the  hope  of  somehow  working  upon  her,  had 
stayed  to  bid  grandmother  and  grandchild  good-by.  This 
was  a  plot,  a  plant,  and  she  was  furious,  her  sense  of 
justice  suffering  violent  eclipse.  For  was  it  not  abomi- 
nable of  him  to  have  placed  her  in  so  unworthy  and  mor- 
tifying a  position  in  respect  of  her  dead  husband,  and, 
incidentally,  to  have  given  her  such  a  dreadful  fright? 
Regardless  of  reason  she  piled  his  offenses  mountain- 
high.  However,  this  simplified  matters  in  a  way,  dis- 
posing of  a  certain  question  forever.  Marry  him? 
She'd  as  soon  marry  a  ragpicker,  a  scavenger!  She 
hoped  devoutly  he  would  have  an  atrocious  crossing 
when  he  did  at  last  seek  foreign  shores. 

Thereupon  she  rose  and  swept  onward,  in  the  stateliest 
manner  imaginable,  with  trailing,  somber  skirts,  over 
the  polished,  shining  floor. 

As  she  threw  open  the  dining-room  door  a  slender, 
white-frocked,  black-silk-legged  figure  rushed  upon  her 
and  clasped  her  about  the  hips  with  ecstatic  cries. 

"Ah!  mamma,"  it  piped.  "At  last  you  have  come! 
I  am  so  excited.  We  have  waited  and  listened.  But  it 
was  a  secret.  He  forbade  us  to  tell  you  he  was  here. 
It  was  to  be  a  great  surprise.     Now  you  may  look,  but 

34 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

you  must  promise  not  to  interrupt  with  conversation. 
That  is  very  important,  you  understand,  because  the 
next  few  moments  are  critical.  M.  Dax  is  cooking  an 
omelette  in  my  tiny,  weeny  frying-pan  for  our  dolls  and 
Teddy-bears." 

And  so,  once  again  upon  this  day  of  self- revelations, 
Madame  St.  Leger  had  to  revise  her  position  and  own 
herself  in  the  wrong.  Yet  the  relief  of  finding  neither 
resuscitated  husband  nor  importunate  lover,  but  simply 
M.  Rene  Dax.  in  possession  was  so  great  that  she  greeted 
that  eccentric  and  gifted  young  man  with  warm  cor- 
diality— wholly  ignoring  his  affectations  and  the  rumors 
current  regarding  his  moral  aberrations,  remembering 
only  the  irreproachable  correctness  of  his  dress  and 
manners,  and  the  quaintly  pathetic  effect  of  his  small, 
tired  face,  great  domed  head  and  bulging  forehead — like 
those  of  a  hydrocephalic  baby — and  the  ingeniously 
fascinating  qualities  he  displayed  as  self-elected  play- 
fellow of  Bette  and  her  little  friends. 

Yes,  she  told  herself,  she  really  had  a  great  regard  for 
Rene  Dax.  He  touched  her.  And  now  she,  undoubt- 
edly, passed  a  wholly  delightful  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  in  his  and  the  little  girls'  company,  Madame  Ver- 
nois  looking  on,  meanwhile,  sympathetic  yet  slightly 
perplexed.  For  Gabrielle,  in  her  reaction  of  feeling,  for- 
getful of  her  black  dress  and  twenty-seven  years,  and 
the  rather  tedious  restraints  and  dignities  of  her 
matronhood,  was  taken  with  the  sprightliest  humor. 
She  remembered  that  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
now  with  a  degree  of  regret.  If  only  it  could  have 
stopped  at  that!  But,  unfortunately,  things  went  fur- 
ther. 

For,  at  parting,  she  had  lingered  in  the  gallery,  where 
the  haggard  whiteness  of  the  snow-glare  struggled  with 
the  deepening  twilight,  thanking  Rene"  Dax  for  his  kind- 
ness to  the  children  and  for  the  happy  afternoon  he  had 
given  them.     The  sense  of  holiday,  of  playtime,  was  still 

35 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

upon  her  and  she  spoke  with  unaccustomed  gaiety  and 
intimacy  of  tone. 

The  young  man  looked  up  at  her  attentively,  queerly — 
the  top  of  his  head  barely  level  with  her  shoulder— and 
answered,  a  certain  harshness  observable  in  his  carefully 
modulated  voice: 

"  Do  not  spoil  it  all  by  accusing  me  of  a  good  action. 
In  accusing  me  of  that  you  do  my  intelligence  a  gross 
injustice.  My  conduct  has  been  dictated,  as  always, 
by  calculated  selfishness." 

And,  when  she  smilingly  protested,  he  went  on: 

"I  have  many  faults,  no  doubt.  But  I  am  guiltless 
of  the  weakness  of  altruism — contemptible  word,  under 
which  the  modern  mind  tries  to  conceal  its  cowardice 
and  absence  of  all  sound  philosophy.  I  am  an  egoist, 
dear  Madame,  believe  me,  an  egoist  pure  and  simple." 

He  paused,  looking  down  with  an  effect  of  the  utmost 
gravity  at  his  very  small  and  exquisitely  shod  feet. 

"  It  happened,  for  reasons  with  which  it  is  superfluous 
to  trouble  you,  that  to-day  I  required  a  change  of  at- 
mosphere. I  needed  to  bathe  myself  in  innocence.  I 
cast  about  for  the  easiest  method  of  performing  such 
ablutions,  and  my  thought  traveled  to  Mademoiselle 
Bette.  The  weather  being  odious,  it  was  probable  I 
should  find  her  in  the  house.  My  plan  succeeded  to 
admiration.  Have  no  delusions  under  that  head.  It  is 
invariably  the  altruist,  not  the  egoist,  whose  plans  mis- 
carry or  are  foiled!" 

He  took  a  long  breath,  stretching  his  puny  person. 

"I  am  better.  I  am  cleansed,"  he  said.  "For  the 
moment  at  least  I  am  restored,  renewed.  And  for  this 
restoration  the  reason  is  at  once  simple  and  profound. 
You  must  understand,"  he  went  on,  in  a  soft  conversa- 
tional manner,  as  one  stating  the  most  obvious  common- 
place, "my  soul  when  it  first  entered  my  body  was 
already  old,  immeasurably  old.  It  had  traversed 
countless    cycles    of    human    history.     It    had    heard 

36 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

things  no  man  may  repeat  and  live.  It  had  fed  on 
gilded  and  splendid  corruptions.  It  had  embraced  the 
forbidden  and  hugged  nameless  abominations  to  its 
heart.  It  had  gazed  on  the  naked  face  of  the  Ultimate 
Self-Existent  Terror  whose  breath  drives  the  ever- 
turning  Wheel  of  Being.  It  had  galloped  back,  appalled, 
through  the  blank,  shouting  nothingness,  and  clothed 
itself  in  the  flesh  of  an  unborn,  un quickened  infant, 
thus  for  a  brief  space  obtaining  unconsciousness  and 
repose." 

Rene  Dax  looked  up  at  her  again,  his  little,  tired  face 
very  solemn,  his  eyes  glowing  as  though  a  red  lamp 
burned  behind  them. 

"Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  why  we  worship  our 
mothers?"  he  asked.  "It  is  not  because  they  bring  us 
into  life,  but  because  for  nine  sacred  months  they  pro- 
cure us  blessed  illusion  of  non-living.  How  can  we  ever 
thank  them  sufficiently  for  this?  And  that,"  he  added, 
"is  why  at  times,  as  to-day,  I  am  driven  to  seek  the 
society  of  young  children.  It  rests  and  refreshes  me 
to  be  near  them,  because  they  have  still  gone  but  a  few 
steps  along  the  horrible,  perpetually  retrodden  pathway. 
They  have  not  begun  to  recognize  the  landmarks. 
They  have  not  yet  begun  to  remember.  They  fancy 
they  are  here  for  the  first  time.  Past  and  future  are 
alike  unrealized  by  them.  The  aroma  of  the  enchanted 
narcotic  of  non-living,  which  still  exhales  from  their 
speech  and  laughter,  renders  their  neighborhood  in- 
finitely soothing  to  a  soul  like  mine,  staggering  beneath 
the  paralyzing  burden  of  a  knowledge  of  accumulated 
lives." 

Whether  the  young  man  had  spoken  sincerely,  giving 
voice  to  a  creed  he  actually,  however  mistakenly,  held, 
or  whether  his  utterances  were  merely  a  pose,  the  out- 
come of  a  perverse  and  morbid  effort  at  singularity, 
Madame  St.  Leger  was  uncertain.  Still  it  was  undeni- 
able that  those  utterances — whether  honest  or  not — and 

37 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

the  somber  visions  evoked  by  them  remained,  distress- 
ing and  perplexing  her  with  a  dreary  horror  of  non- 
progression,  of  perpetual  and  futile  spinning  in  a  vicious 
circle,  of  perpetual  and  futile  actual  sameness  through- 
out perpetual  apparent  change. 

So  far  all  the  essentials  of  the  Faith  in  which  she  had 
been  born  and  educated  remained  to  her.  Yet,  too  often 
now,  as  she  sorrowfully  admitted,  her  declaration  of 
that  Faith  found  expression  in  the  disciple's  cry,  "Lord, 
I  believe;  help  Thou  my  unbelief."  For  unbelief, 
reasoned  not  merely  scoffing,  had,  during  these  years  of 
intercourse  with  the  literary  and  artistic  world  of  Paris, 
become  by  no  means  inconceivable  to  her.  More  than 
half  the  people  she  met  smiled  at,  if  they  might  not 
openly  repudiate,  Christianity.  It  followed  that  she  no 
longer  figured  the  Faith  to  herself  as  a  "fair  land  and 
large"  wherein  she  could  dwell  in  happy  security,  but 
rather  as  a  fortress  set  on  an  island  of  somewhat  friable 
rock,  against  which  winds  and  waves  beat  remorselessly. 
And  truly,  at  moments — cruel  moments,  which  she 
dreaded — the  onslaught  of  modern  ideas,  of  the  mod- 
ern attitude  in  its  contempt  of  tradition  and  defiance 
of  authority — flinging  back  questions  long  since  judged 
and  conclusions  long  established  into  the  seething  pot  of 
individual  speculation — seemed  to  threaten  final  under- 
mining of  that  rock  and  consequent  toppling  of  the 
fortress  of  Faith  surmounting  it  into  the  waters  of  a 
laughing,  envious,  all-swallowing  sea.  This  troubled  her 
the  more  because  certain  modern  ideas — notably  that  of 
emancipated  and  self-sustained  womanhood — appealed 
to  and  attracted  her.  Was  there  no  middle  way  ?  Was 
no  marriage  between  the  old  Faith  and  the  new  science, 
the  new  democracy,  possible  ?  If  you  accepted  the  lat- 
ter, did  negations  and  denials  logically  follow,  compel- 
ling you  to  let  the  former  go? 

And  so  it  came  about  that  to-night,  she  alone  waking 
in  the  sleeping  house,  the  gloomy  pictures  called  up  by 

38 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Rene  Dax's  strange  talk  held  her  painfully.  They  stood 
between  her  and  sleep,  between  her  and  prayer,  heighten- 
ing her  restlessness  and  suggesting  thoughts  very  sub- 
versive of  Christian  theology  and  Christian  ethics. 

Gabrielle  rose  from  her  chair  and  moved  to  and  fro, 
her  hands  clasped  behind  her.  She  never  remembered 
to  have  felt  like  this  before.  The  room  seemed  too 
narrow,  too  neat,  its  appointments  too  finicking  and 
orderly,  to  contain  her  erratic  and  overflowing  mental 
activity.  The  abiding  mystery  which  not  only  sur- 
rounds each  individual  life,  but  permeates  each  individual 
nature,  the  impassable  gulf  which  divides  even  the  near- 
est and  most  unselfishly  loved — even  she  herself  and  her 
own  darling  little  Bette — from  one  another,  presented 
itself  oppressive  and  distressing  as  a  nightmare.  Just 
now  it  appeared  to  her  inconceivable  that  to-morrow 
she  would-  rise  just  as  usual,  satisfied  to  accept  conven- 
tions, subscribe  to  compromises,  take  things  in  general 
at  their  face  value,  while  contentedly  expending  her 
energies  of  brain  and  body  upon  trivialities  of  clothes, 
housekeeping,  gossip,  the  thousand  and  one  ephemeral 
interests  and  occupations  of  a  sheltered,  highly  civilized 
woman's  daily  existence.  The  inadequacy,  the  amaz- 
ing futility  of  it  all ! 

Then,  half  afraid  of  the  great  stillness,  she  stood  per- 
fectly quiet,  listening  to  the  desolate  cry  of  the  wind 
along  the  house-roofs  and  its  hissing  against  the  window- 
panes. 

'"My  soul  has  gazed  on  the  Ultimate  Self-Existent 
Terror  whose  breath  drives  the  ever-turning  Wheel  of 
Being,'"  she  murmured  as  she  listened.  '"It  gal- 
loped back,  appalled,  through  the  blank,  shouting  noth- 
ingness'"— 

Yes,  that  was  dreadful  conception  of  human  fate! 
But  what  if  it  were  true  ?  Millions  believed  it,  or  some- 
thing very  closely  akin  to  it,  away  in  the  East,  in  those 
frightening  lands  of  yellow  sunrise  and  yellow,  expres- 

39 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

sionless  peoples  of  whom  it  always  alarmed  her  to  think! 
Swiftly  her  mind  made  a  return  upon  the  three  men, 
living  and  dead,  who  to-day  had  so  deeply  affected  her, 
breaking  up  her  practised  calm  and  self-restraint.  She 
ranged  them  side  by  side,  and,  in  her  present  state  of 
exaltation,  they  severally  and  equally— though  for  very 
different  reasons — appeared  to  her  as  enemies  against 
whom  she  was  called  upon  to  fight.  Seemed  to  her 
as  tyrants,  either  of  whom  to  sustain  his  own  insolent, 
masculine  supremacy  schemed  to  enslave  her,  to  rob 
her  of  her  intellectual  and  physical  freedom,  of  her  so 
jealously  cherished  ownership  of  herself. 

" '  It  galloped  back  through  the  blank,  shouting  noth- 
ingness,'" she  repeated.  But  there  came  the  sharpest 
sting  of  the  situation.  For  to  what  covert?  Where 
could  her  soul  take  sanctuary  since  friendship  and 
marriage  proved  so  full  of  pitfalls,  and  her  fortress  of 
Faith  was  just  now,  as  she  feared,  shaken  to  the 
base? 

Then,  the  homeless  cry  of  the  wind  finding  echo  in  her 
homelessness  of  spirit,  a  sort  of  anger  upon  her,  blind 
anger  against  things  as  they  are,  she  moved  over  to  the 
window,  drew  back  the  curtains  and  opened  the  locked 
casements.  The  cold  clutched  her  by  the  throat,  making 
her  gasp  for  breath,  making  her  flesh  sting  and  ache. 
Yet  the  apprehension  of  a  Presence,  steadying  and 
fortifying  in  its  great  simplicity  of  strength,  compelled 
her  to  remain.  She  knelt  upon  the  window-seat  and 
leaned  out  between  the  inward  opening  casements,  plant- 
ing her  elbows  on  the  window-ledge  and  covering  her 
mouth  with  her  hands  to  protect  her  lips  from  the 
blistering  chill. 

Outside  was  the  wonder  of  an  unknown  Paris,  a 
vacant,  frozen,  voiceless  Paris,  wrapped  in  a  winding- 
sheet  of  newly  fallen  snow.  Under  the  lamps,  along  the 
quay  immediately  below,  that  winding-sheet  glittered  in 
myriad  diamond  points,  a  uniform  surface  as  yet  un- 

40 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

broken  by  wheel  tracks  or  footprints — misery,  pleasure, 
business,  alike  in  hiding  from  the  bitter  frost.  Else- 
where it  spread  in  a  heavy,  muffling  bleachedness,  from 
the  bosom  of  which  walls,  buildings,  bridges  reared 
themselves  strangely  unsubstantial,  every  ledge  and 
projection  enameled  in  white.  Beneath  the  Pont  des 
Arts  on  the  right  and  the  Pont  des  Saints  Peres  on  the 
left — each  very  distinct  with  glistening  roadway  and 
double  row  of  lamps — the  river  ran  black  as  ink.  The 
trees  bordering  the  quays  were  black,  a  spidery  black,  in 
their  agitated,  wind-tormented  bareness.  And  the  sky 
was  black,  too,  impenetrable,  starless,  low  and  flat, 
engulfing  the  many  domes,  monuments,  and  towers  of 
Paris,  engulfing  even  the  roofs  and  pavilions  of  the 
Louvre  along  the  opposite  bank  of  the  Seine,  inclosing 
and  curiously  isolating  the  scene.  This  effect  of  an 
earth  so  much  paler  and,  for  the  most  part,  so  much 
less  solid  than  the  sky  above  it,  this  effect  of  buildings 
rising  from  that  pallor  to  lose  themselves  in  duskiness, 
was  unnatural  and  disquieting  in  a  high  degree.  The 
sentiment  of  this  desert,  voiceless  Paris  was  more  dis- 
quieting still.  For  Gabrielle  retained  something  of  the 
provincial's  persistent  distrust  of  the  siren  personality 
of  la  ville  lumiere.  The  wonderful  and  brilliant  city  had 
enthralled  her  imagination,  but  had  never  quite  con- 
quered her  affections.  Now,  leaning  out  of  the  high-set 
window,  she  gazed  as  far  as  sight  carried,  east,  west,  and 
north,  while  a  vague,  deep-seated  excitement  possessed 
her.  It  was  as  though  she  touched  the  verge  of  some 
extraordinary  revelation,  some  tremendous  crisis  of  the 
cosmic  drama.  Had  universal  paralysis  seized  the  heart 
of  things,  she  asked  herself,  of  which  this  desert,  voice- 
less Paris  was  the  symbol  ?  Had  the  ever-turning  Wheel 
of  Being  ceased  to  turn,  struck  into  immobility,  as  the 
world-famous  city  appeared  to  be,  by  some  miracle  of 
incalculable  frost  ? 

The  cry  of  the  wind  answered.     So  the  wind,  at  least, 

4i 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

was  alive  and  awake  yet,  as  were  the  black  seaward- 
flowing  waters  of  the  river. 

Then  suddenly,  unexpectedly,  along  with  that  home- 
less cry  of  the  wind  hailing  from  she  knew  not  what  im- 
mense desolation  of  polar  spaces,  came  a  small,  plaintive, 
human  cry  close  at  hand. 

Hearing  which  last  the  young  woman  sprang  down 
from  her  kneeling  place,  locked  the  gaping  casements 
together,  and  ran  lightly  and  swiftly  into  the  adjoining 
room.  There  in  the  warm  dimness,  her  hands  out- 
stretched grasping  the  rail  of  her  cot  on  either  side,  slim 
little  Bette  sat  woefully  straight  up  on  end. 

"Mamma,  mamma,"  she  wailed,  "come  and  hold  me 
tight,  very  tight!  I  have  had  a  bad  dream.  I  am 
frightened.  M.  Rene  Dax  touched  all  my  toys,  all  my 
darling,  tiny  saucepans  and  kettles,  all  my  dolls  and 
Teddy-bears  with  his  little  walking-cane.  And  it  was 
terrifying.  They  all  came  alive  and  chased  me.  Hold 
me  tight.  I  am  so  frightened.  They  rushed  along. 
They  chased  me  and  chased  me.  They  panted.  Their 
mouths  were  open.  I  could  see  their  red  tongues.  And 
they  yelped  as  the  little  pet  dogs  do  in  the  public  gar- 
dens when  they  try  to  catch  the  sparrows.  I  called  and 
called  to  you,  but  you  were  not  there.  You  did  not 
come.  I  tried  very  hard  to  run  away,  but  my  feet 
stuck  to  the  floor.  They  were  so  very  heavy  I  could 
not  lift  them.  It  is  not  true?  Tell  me  it  is  not  true. 
He  cannot  touch  all  my  toys  with  his  little  cane  and 
make  them  come  alive?  I  think  I  shall  be  afraid  ever 
to  play  with  them  any  more.  They  were  so  dreadfully 
unkind.     Tell  me  it  is  not  true!" 

"No,  no,  my  angel,"  Gabrielle  declared,  soothingly. 
"It  is  not  true,  not  in  the  very  least  true.  It  is  only  a 
silly  dream.  All  the  poor  toys  are  quite  good.  You 
will  find  them  obedient  and  loving,  asking  ever  so 
prettily  to  be  played  with  again  to-morrow  morning." 

She  took  the  slender,  soft,  warm  body  up  in  her  arms 
42 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

— it  was  sweet  with  the  flower-like  sweetness  of  perfect 
cleanliness  and  health — and  held  it  close  against  her. 
And  for  the  moment  perplexities,  far-reaching  specu- 
lations and  questionings  were  obliterated  in  a  passion  of 
tenderness  for  this  innocent  life,  this  innocent  body, 
which  was  the  fruit  of  her  own  life  and  her  own  body.  All 
else  fell  away  from  her,  leaving  her  motherhood  tri- 
umphant and  supreme. 

The  child,  making  good  the  opportunity,  began  to 
wheedle  and  coax. 

"I  think  it  is  really  very  cold  in  my  bed,"  she  said. 
"  I  am  sure  it  would  be  far  warmer  in  yours.  And  I  may 
dream  M.  Dax  came  back  and  touched  my  toys  with  his 
little  walking-cane  and  made  them  naughty  if  I  remain 
here  by  myself.  Do  not  you  think  it  would  be  rather 
dangerous  to  leave  me  here  alone?  I  might  wake 
grandmamma  if  I  were  to  be  terrified  again  and  to 
scream.     I  like  your  big  bed  so  very  much  best." 

The  consequence  of  all  of  which  was  that  Gabrielle 
St.  Leger  said  her  rosary  that  night  fingering  the  beads 
with  one  hand  while  the  other  clasped  the  sleeping  child, 
whose  pretty  head  lay  on  her  bosom.  Her  mind  grew 
calm.  The  fortress  of  Faith  stood  firm  again,  as  she 
thankfully  believed,  upon  its  foundation  of  rock.  She  re- 
covered her  justness  of  attitude  toward  departed  hus- 
band and  absent  lover.  But  she  determined  to  reduce 
her  intercourse  with  M.  Rene  Dax  to  a  minimum,  since 
the  tricks  he  played  with  his  little  walking-cane  seemed 
liable  to  be  of  so  revolutionary  and  disintegrating  a 
character.  • 


CHAPTER  IV 

CLIMBING   THE    LADDER 

THE  snow  had  been  cleared  away  from  the  drive 
and  carriage  sweep,  but  still  lay  in  thick  billowy 
masses  upon  the  branches  of  the  fir  and  pine  trees  and 
upon  the  banks  of  laurel  and  rhododendron  below.  At 
sunset  the  sky  had  cleared  somewhat,  and  a  scarlet  glow 
touched  the  under  side  of  the  vast  perspective  of  pale, 
folded  cloud,  and  blazed  on  the  upper  south  westward- 
facing  windows  of  the  Tower  House  as  with  a  dazzle  of 
fierce  flame.  Joseph  Challoner,  however,  was  unaware 
of  these  rather  superb  impressionist  effects  as,  with  his 
heavy,  lunging  step,  he  came  out  of  the  house  on  to  the 
drive.  The  drawing-room  had  been  hot,  and  he  had 
gone  through  a  somewhat  emotional  interview.  A  man 
at  once  hard  and  sentimental,  just  now  sentiment  was, 
so  to  speak,  on  the  top.  His  upright  face  and  head  were 
decidedly  flushed.  He  felt  warm.  He  also  felt  ex- 
cited, perceiving  perspectives  quite  other  than  those 
presented  by  the  folded  clouds  and  the  afterglow. 

Usually  Joseph  Challoner  affected  a  country-gentleman 
style  of  dress — tweeds  of  British  manufacture,  noted  for 
their  wear  and  wet-resisting  qualities,  symbolic  of  those 
sturdy,  manly,  no-nonsense  sort  of  virtues,  of  which  he 
reckoned  himself  so  conspicuous  an  exponent,  and 
which  have,  as  we  all  know,  gone  to  make  England  what 
she  is.  But  to-day  out  of  respect  for  his  late  client, 
Montagu  Smyrthwaite,  he  had  put  on  garments  of  cere- 
mony, black  braid-edged  coat  and  waistcoat,  pepper-and- 
salt-mixture  overcoat  with  black-velvet  collar,  striped 

44 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

dove-gray  and  black  trousers — which  had  served  at  a 
recent  local  wedding — and  top  hat.  This  costume 
tended  to  make  an  awkwardness  of  gait  and  action 
which  belonged  to  him  the  more  observable.  Over  six 
feet  in  height,  he  was  commonly  described  by  his 
admirers — mostly  women — as  "a  splendid-looking  man." 
Others,  doubtless  envious  of  his  success  with  the  fair 
sex  and  of  his  inches,  compared  him,  with  his  straight, 
thick,  up-and-down  figure,  as  broad  across  the  loins  as  at 
the  shoulders,  his  large  paw-like  hands  and  feet  and 
flattened,  slightly  Mongolian  caste  of  countenance,  to  a 
colossal  infant.  His  opinion  of  his  own  appearance, 
concerning  which  he  was  in  a  chronic  state  of  anxiety, 
fluctuated  between  these  two  extremes,  with  hopeful 
leanings  toward  the  former.  At  the  present  moment, 
for  private  reasons,  he  hoped  fervently  that  he  was  "a 
splendid-looking  man." 

That  he  was  a  moist  and  hot  one  was  undeniable.  He 
took  off  his  hat  and  passed  his  hand  over  his  straight, 
shiny,  reddish  hair — carefully  brushed  across  impending 
calvities — and  sucked  the  ends  of  his  rather  ragged 
mustache  nervously  into  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

He  was  touched,  very  much  touched.  He  had  not 
felt  so  upset  for  years.  He  admired  his  own  sensibility. 
Yes,  most  distinctly  he  trusted  that  he  was  "a  splendid- 
looking  man" — and  that  she  so  regarded  him.  Then, 
coming  along  the  drive  toward  him,  between  the  snow- 
patched  banks  of  evergreen,  he  caught  sight  of  the  short, 
well-bred,  well-dressed,  busy,  not  to  say  fussy,  little 
figure  of  that  cherished  institution  of  the  best  Stour- 
mouth  society,  Colonel  Rentoul  Haig.  This  diverted  his 
thoughts  into  another  channel,  or,  to  be  perfectly  ac- 
curate, set  a  second  stream  running  alongside  the  first. 
Both,  it  may  be  added,  tended  in  the  direction  of  per- 
sonal self-aggrandizement. 

"Good-day  to  you,  Challoner.  Glad  to  meet  you," 
Colonel  Haig  said,  a  hint  of  patronage  in  his  tone.     "I 

45 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

heard  the  sad  news  from  Woodward  at  the  club  at 
luncheon-time,  and  I  took  the  tram  up  as  far  as  the 
County  Gates  as  soon  as  I  could  get  away.  We  had  a 
committee  meeting  at  two-thirty.  I  felt  it  would  be 
only  proper  to  come  and  inquire." 

"Yes,"  the  other  answered,  in  a  suitably  black-edged 
manner,  "our  poor  friend  passed  away  early  this  morn- 
ing.    I  was  sent  for  immediately." 

Having  a  keen  sense  of  the  value  of  phrases,  Colonel 
Haig  pricked  up  his  ears,  so  to  speak.  His  attitude  of 
mind  was  far  from  democratic,  and  "our  poor  friend" 
from  a  local  solicitor  struck  him  as  a  trifle  familiar.  He 
looked  up  sharply  at  the  speaker.  He  felt  very  much 
tempted  to  teach  the  man  his  place.  But  there  was 
such  a  lot  he  wanted  to  hear  which  only  this  man  could 
tell  him.  And  so,  the  inquisitive  nose  and  puckered, 
gossipy  mouth  getting  the  better  of  the  commanding 
military  eye,  he  decided  to  postpone  the  snubbing  of 
Challoner  to  a  more  convenient  season. 

"I  came  round  this  afternoon  chiefly  to  see  Miss 
Margaret,"  the  latter  continued.  "She  was  terribly 
distressed  and  felt  unequal  to  seeing  me  this  morning. 
She  is  very  sensitive,  very  sensitive  and  feminine.  Her 
father's  death  came  as  a  great  shock  to  her.  And  then 
owing  to  some  mistake  or  neglect  she  was  not  present  at 
the  last.  As  she  told  me,  she  feels  that  very  much 
indeed."  The  speaker's  voice  took  a  severe  tone.  He 
shifted  his  weight  from  one  massive  foot  to  the  other, 
rather  after  the  manner  of  a  dancing  bear.  "Her  grief 
was  painful  to  witness.  And  I  think  you'll  agree  with 
me,  Colonel,  it  was  just  one  of  the  neglects  which  ought 
not  to  have  occurred." 

"A  pity,  a  pity!"  the  other  admitted.  "But  on  such 
occasions  people  will  lose  their  heads.  It's  unavoidable. 
Look  here,  Challoner,  I  must  go  on  and  leave  cards. 
But  I  sha'n't  be  more  than  five  minutes.  I  shall  not  ask 
to  see  either  of  the  ladies  to-day.     So  if  you'll  wait  I'll 

46 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

walk  as  far  as  the  County  Gates  with  you,  supposing 
you're  going  in  my  direction." 

The  Mongolian  caste  of  countenance  is  conveniently 
non-committal,  lending  itself  to  no  compromising  play  of 
expression.  Challoner  was  more  than  willing  to  wait. 
He  had  certain  things  to  say,  a  favor,  indeed,  to  ask. 
And  it  always  looked  well,  moreover — conferred  a  sort 
of  patent  of  social  solvency  upon  you — to  be  seen  in  public 
with  Colonel  Haig.  He  wished  the  weather  had  been 
less  inclement  so  that  more  people  might  be  about! 
But  he  betrayed  no  eagerness.  Took  out  his  watch, 
even,  and  noted  the  hour  before  answering. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  may  allow  myself  the  pleasure,"  he 
said.  "  I  have  been  too  much  engaged  here  to  get  down 
to  my  office  to-day,  and  there  will  be  a  mass  of  business 
waiting  for  me  at  home — no  taking  it  easy  in  my  pro- 
fession if  you're  to  do  your  duty  by  your  clients — but, 
yes,  I  shall  be  happy  to  wait  for  you." 

Then,  left  alone  in  the  still,  clear  cold,  he  became 
absorbed  in  thought  again. 

When  Joseph  Challoner,  the  elder,  settled  at  Stour- 
mouth  in  the  early  sixties  of  the  last  century,  that 
famous  health-resort  had  consisted  of  a  single  street  of 
small  shops,  stationed  along  a  level  space  about  half  a 
mile  up  the  fir  and  pine  clad  valley  from  the  sea,  plus 
some  dozen  unattractive  lodging-houses  perched  on  the 
top  of  the  West  Cliff.  The  beginnings  of  business  had 
been  meager.  Now  Stourmouth  and  the  outlying  resi- 
dential districts  to  which  it  acts  as  center — among  them 
the  great  stretch  of  pine-land  known  as  the  Baughurst 
Park  Estate — covers  the  whole  thirteen  miles,  in  an 
almost  unbroken  series  of  shops,  boarding-houses,  hotels, 
villas,  and  places  of  amusement,  from  the  ancient 
abbey-town  of  Mary  church  at  the  junction  of  the  rivers 
Wilmer  and  Arn,  on  the  east,  to  Barryport,  the  old  sea- 
faring town,  formerly  of  somewhat  sinister  reputation, 
set  beside  a  wide,  shallow,  island-dotted,  land-locked 

47 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

harbor  to  the  west.  Along  with  the  development  of 
Stourmouth  the  elder  Challoner's  fortunes  developed. 
So  that  when,  as  an  old  man,  he  died  in  the  last  of  the 
eighties,  his  son,  the  younger  Joseph,  succeeded  to  a 
by  no  means  contemptible  patrimony. 

As  business  increased  other  members  came  into  the 
firm,  which  now  figured  as  that  of  Challoner,  Greatrex  & 
Pewsey.  But,  and  that  not  in  virtue  of  his  senior  part- 
nership alone,  Joseph  Challoner's  interest  remained  the 
largely  predominant  one.  He  was  indefatigable,  quick 
to  spot  a  good  thing,  and,  so  some  said,  more  clever  than 
scrupulous  in  his  pursuit  of  it.  He  came  to  possess  the 
reputation  of  a  man  who  it  is  safer  to  have  for  your 
friend  than  your  enemy.  So  much  for  the  hard  side  of 
his  character. 

As  to  the  sentimental  side.  When  a  youth  of  twenty  he 
had  fallen  head  over  ears  in  love  with  the  daughter  of  a 
local  retail  chemist,  a  pretty,  delicate  girl,  with  the 
marks  of  phthisis  already  upon  her.  She  brought  him 
a  few  hundred  pounds.  They  married.  And  he  was 
quite  a  good  husband  to  her — as  English  husbands  go. 
Still  this  marriage  had  been,  he  came  to  see,  a  mistake. 
The  money,  after  all,  was  but  a  modest  sum,  while  her 
ill-health  proved  decidedly  costly.  And  then  he  had 
grown  to  know  more  of  the  world,  grown  harder  and 
stronger,  grown  to  perceive  among  other  things  that 
connection  with  a  shop  is  a  handicap.  The  smell  of  it 
sticks.  There's  no  ridding  yourself  of  it.  Joseph 
Challoner  may  be  acquitted  of  being  more  addicted  to 
peerage  or  money  worship,  to  being  a  greater  snob,  in 
short,  than  the  average  self-respecting  Anglo-Saxon; 
yet  it  would  be  idle  to  deny  that  when  an  all-wise  and 
merciful  providence  permitted  his  poor,  pretty  young 
wife — after  several  unsuccessful  attempts  at  the  pro- 
duction of  infant  Challoners — to  die  of  consumption,  her 
husband  felt  there  were  compensations.  He  recognized 
her  death  as  a  call,  socially  speaking,  to  come  up  higher. 

48 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

He  set  himself  to  obey  that  call,  but  he  did  not  hurry. 
For  close  upon  thirteen  years  now,  though  of  an  amorous 
and  domestic  disposition,  he  had  remained  a  widower. 
And  this  of  set  purpose,  for  he  proposed  that  the  last 
whiff  of  the  shop  should  have  time  to  evaporate.  By 
the  period  immediately  in  question  he  had  reason  to 
believe  it  really  had  done  so.  Privately  he  expended 
a  considerable  sum  in  procuring  his  father-in-law  a  prom- 
ising business  near  London.  Stourmouth  knew  that  retail 
chemist  no  more.  And  so  it  followed  that  the  dead  wife's 
compromising  origin  was,  practically,  forgotten;  only  ad- 
miration of  the  constancy  of  the  bereaved  husband  re- 
mained. To  complete  the  divorce  between  past  and 
present,  Challoner,  some  few  years  previously,  had  let  the 
"upper  part"  over  the  firm's  offices,  at  the  corner  where 
the  Old  Marychurch  Road  opens  upon  the  public  gardens 
and  The  Square  in  the  center  of  Stourmouth,  to  his 
junior  partner,  Mr.  Pewsey,  and  removed  to  Heather- 
leigh,  a  fair-sized  villa  on  the  Baughurst  Park  Estate, 
which  he  bought  at  bargain  price  owing  to  the  insolvency 
of  its  owner.  Here,  with  a  married  couple  at  the  head 
of  his  household,  as  butler  and  cook-housekeeper,  he 
lived  in  solid  British  comfort — so-called — giving  tea  and 
tennis  parties  at  intervals  during  the  summer  months, 
and  somewhat  heavy  dinners  during  the  winter  ones,  fol- 
lowed by  bridge  and  billiards. 

Granted  the  man  and  his  natural  tendencies,  it  was  im- 
possible that  the  thirteen  years  which  had  elapsed  since 
the  death  of  his  wife  should  have  been  altogether  free 
from  sentimental  complications.  These  had,  in  point  of 
fact,  been  numerous.  Upon  several  of  them  he  could 
not  look  back  with  self-congratulation.  Still  the  main 
thing  was  that  he  had  escaped,  always  managing  to 
sheer  off  in  time  to  avoid  being  "had,"  being  run  down 
and  legally  appropriated.  The  retreat  may  not  have 
been  graceful,  might  not,  to  a  scrupulous  conscience, 
even    figure    as    strictly    honorable,  but   it   had   been 

49 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

accomplished.  And  for  that— standing  here,  now,  to- 
day, on  the  snow-powdered  carriage  sweep  of  the  Tower 
House — with  a  movement  of  unsuspected  cynicism  and 
profanity  he  gave  thanks,  sober,  heartfelt,  deliberate 
thanks  to  God  his  Maker.  For  his  chance  had  come,  the 
chance  of  a  lifetime!  He  turned  fiercely,  grimly  angry 
at  the  bare  notion  that  any  turn  of  events  might  have 
rendered  him  not  free  to  embrace  it.  And  his  anger,  as 
anger  will,  fixed  itself  vindictively  upon  a  concrete  ob- 
ject, upon  a  particular  person. 

But,  at  this  point,  his  meditations  were  broken  in 
upon  by  the  sound  of  Colonel  Haig's  slightly  patronzing 
speech  and  the  ring  of  his  brisk  returning  footsteps  over 
the  hard  gravel. 

"Very  obliging  of  you  to  wait  for  me,  Challoner,"  he 
said.  "There  are  several  things  which  I  should  be  glad 
to  hear,  in  confidence,  about  all  this  matter.  Since 
their  father's  death  I  feel  a  certain  responsibility  toward 
the  Miss  Smyrthwaites.  They  have  only  acquaintances 
here  in  the  south  of  England — no  old  friends,  no  relatives. 
I  really  stand  nearest  to  them,  though  we  are  but  dis- 
tantly connected." 

"I  was  not  aware  of  even  a  distant  connection," 
Challoner  returned. 

"Probably  not.  I  suppose  hardly  any  one  here  is 
aware  of  it.  In  a  watering-place  like  Stourmouth,  a 
place  that  has  come  up  like  a  mushroom  in  a  night,  as 
you  may  say,  only  a  very  small  and  exclusive  circle  do 
know  who  is  who.  That  is  one  of  the  things  one  has  to 
put  up  with,  though  I  confess  I  find  it  annoying  at  times. 
Well,  you  see,  my  grandmother  and  poor  Smyrthwaite's 
mother  were  first  cousins  once  removed — both  Savages, 
the  Yorkshire,  not  the  Irish,  branch  of  the  family.  I 
have  reason  to  believe  there  was  a  good  deal  of  opposition 
to  Mrs.  Smyrthwaite's  marriage.  She  was  not  a  Roman 
Catholic,  like  most  of  her  people.  But  they  all  were — 
and  all  are,  I  am  thankful  to  say — people  of  very  solid 

5o 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

standing,  landed  gentry,  soldiers,  and  so  on.  Naturally 
they  objected  to  a  marriage  with  a  manufacturer  and  a 
Non-conformist.  I  am  quite  prepared  to  admit  Uni- 
tarians have  more  breeding  than  most  dissenters,  but 
still  it  isn't  pleasant,  it  isn't  quite  the  thing,  you  know. 
Prejudice?  Perhaps.  But  gentle-people  are  naturally 
prejudiced  in  favor  of  their  own  class.  And,  upon  my 
word,  I  am  inclined  to  believe  it  is  very  happy  for  the 
community  at  large  they  should  be  so." 

The  two  men  reached  the  gate  opening  from  the 
grounds  of  the  Tower  House  on  to  the  public  road — a 
broad,  straight  avenue,  the  foot-paths  on  either  side 
divided  from  the  carriage-way  by  a  double  line  of  Scotch 
firs  rising  from  an  undergrowth  of  rhododendron  and 
laurel.  At  intervals  the  roofs,  gables,  and  turrets  of 
other  jealously  secluded  villas — in  widely  differing  styles 
and  no-styles  of  architecture — were  visible.  But  these 
struck  the  eye  as  accidental.  The  somber,  far-stretching 
fir  and  pine  woods  were  that  which  held  the  attention. 
They,  and  the  great  quiet  of  them ;  in  which  the  cracking 
of  a  branch  over-weighted  with  snow,  the  distant  bark- 
ing of  a  dog,  or  the  twittering  of  a  company  of  blue- 
tits  foraging  from  tree-stem  to  tree-stem  where  the  red 
scaling  bark  gave  promise  of  insect  provender,  amounted 
to  an  arresting  event. 

After  a  moment  of  just  perceptible  hesitation  Joseph 
Challoner  pushed  open  the  heavy  gate  for  the  elder  man 
and  let  him  pass  out  first.  Several  points  in  Colonel 
Haig's  discourse  pleased  him  exceedingly  little,  but,  in 
dealing  with  men  as  with  affairs,  he  never  permitted 
minor  issues  to  obscure  his  judgment  regarding  major 
ones.  If  the  old  lad  chose  to  be  a  bit  impertinent  and 
showy,  never  mind.  Let  him  amuse  himself  that  way  if 
he  wanted  to.  Challoner  had  a  use  for  him  just  now, 
and  could  be  patient  till  he  had  used  him — used  him 
right  up,  in  fine,  and  no  longer  had  any  use  left  for  him. 
It  followed  that  as,  side  by  side,  the  two  turned  north- 

51 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

eastward  up  The  Avenue  he  answered  in  a  noticeably 
conciliatory  tone: 

"I  really  am  indebted  to  you,  Colonel,  for  telling  me 
this.  I  own  my  position  looked  awkward  in  some 
respects.  I  foresaw  I  might  want  to  consult  some  one, 
unofficially,  you  understand,  about  the  Miss  Smyrth- 
waites'  affairs;  and,  as  you  truly  say,  they've  nothing 
beyond  acquaintances  here.  I  recognized  there  really 
wasn't  a  soul  to  whom  I  should  feel  at  liberty  to  speak. 
But  now  that  I  know  of  your  connection  with  and  the 
interest  you  take  in  the  family,  I  feel  I  have  some  one 
to  turn  to  if  I  should  need  advice.     It  is  a  great  relief." 

Colonel  Haig's  self-importance  was  agreeably  tickled. 

"lam  very  happy  to  have  the  opportunity  of  being  of 
service  to  you,  Challoner,"  he  said,  graciously,  "par- 
ticularly in  connection  with  my  cousin's  affairs."  Then 
he  became  eminently  businesslike.  "The  disposition  of 
the  property  is  intricate?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  not  exactly.  The  provisions  of  the  will — I  drew 
it — are  simple  enough — in  a  way.  But  there  is  such  a 
large  amount  of  property  to  deal  with." 

"  Yes,  yes,  Smyrthwaite  was  very  close,  of  course,  very 
reticent.  Still  I  have  always  supposed  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  money.  Now,  what  about  is  the  amount,  ap- 
proximately, I  mean — if  you  are  free  to  tell  me?" 

"  Under  the  circumstances  I  see  no  reason  why  I  should 
not  tell  you — in  strict  confidence,  of  course." 

"That  is  understood,  my  dear  Challoner.  Whatever 
you  may  feel  it  advisable,  in  the  interests  of  these  ladies, 
to  say  to  me  goes  no  farther,  absolutely  no  farther." 

This  from  one  whose  face  was  irradiated  with  the  joy 
of  prospective  gossipings  struck  his  hearer  as  a  trifle 
simple-minded.  Never  mind.  The  said  hearer  had  the 
game  well  in  hand. 

"I  take  that  for  granted,  Colonel,"  he  answered. 
"Professional  instinct  made  me  allude  to  it.  One  gets 
so  much  into  the  habit  of  insisting  on  silence  regarding 

52 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

confidential  communications  that  one  insists  when,  as 
in  the  present  case,  there's  not  the  slightest  necessity  for 
doing  so.  A  form  of  words — nothing  more.  With  you 
I  know  I'm  safe.  Well,  the  estate  stands  at  about  two 
hundred  thousand,  rather  more  than  less,  with  a  con- 
siderable yearly  income  from  the  mills  at  Leeds  in 
addition." 

Haig  stopped  short.     He  went  very  red  in  the  face. 

"Yes,  it  makes  a  very  tidy  heiress  of  each  of  the 
ladies,"  Challoner  said,  parenthetically. 

"It  all  goes  to  them?" 

"Practically  all  of  it." 

"I  doubt  if  women  should  be  left  so  much  money," 
Colonel  Haig  exclaimed,  explosively.  Remembrance  of 
his  own  eight  or  nine  hundred  a  year  disgusted  him. 
What  a  miserable  pittance!  He  moved  forward  again, 
still  red  from  mingled  surprise  and  disgust,  his  neat, 
frizzly,  gray  mustache  positively  bristling.  "Yes,  I 
doubt,  I  very  much  doubt,"  he  repeated,  "whether  it  is 
doing  any  woman  a  kindness,  an  unmarried  woman,  in 
particular,  to  leave  her  so  much  money.  It  opens  the 
door  to  all  sorts  of  risks.  Women  have  no  idea  of 
money.  It's  not  in  them.  The  position  of  an  heiress  is 
a  most  unfortunate  one,  in  my  opinion.  It  places  her 
at  the  mercy  of  every  description  of  rascally,  unscrupu- 
lous fortune  hunter." 

"You're  perfectly  right,  Colonel — I  agree,"  Challoner 
said.     "It  does." 

His  face  was  unmoved,  but  his  voice  shook,  gurgling 
in  his  throat  like  that  of  a  man  on  the  edge  of  a  boister- 
ous horse-laugh.  For  a  few  steps  the  two  walked  in 
silence,  then  he  added:  "And  that  is  why  I  am  so  re- 
lieved at  having  you  to  turn  to,  Colonel.  Unscrupulous 
fortune  hunters  are  just  the  sort  of  dirty  gentry  we  shall 
have  to  protect  the  two  ladies  against." 

"You  may  be  sure  of  me,  Challoner,"  Colonel  Haig 
said,  with  much  seriousness.     "We  must  work  together." 

53 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"Yes,  we  must  work  together,  Colonel — in  a  good 
cause — that's  it."     And  again  his  voice  shook. 

"Are  you  executor?"  the  other  inquired,  after  a  pause. 

"No,  and,  between  ourselves,  I  am  glad  of  it.  I  shall 
be  able  to  safeguard  the  Miss  Smyrthwaites'  interests 
better  since  I  am  not  dealing  directly  with  the  property. 
Miss  Joanna  and  a  distant  relative  are  the  executors. 
I  think  the  second  appointment  a  bad  one,  and  ventured 
to  say  as  much  to  Mr.  Smyrthwaite  when  I  drew  this  new 
will  for  him  about  two  years  ago." 

"A  new  will?" 

"Yes;  a  name  occurred  in  the  earlier  one  which  he 
wished  to  have  cut  out." 

The  speaker  paused,  and  the  other  man  rose,  meta- 
phorically speaking,  as  a  fish  at  a  neatly  cast  fly. 

"Ah!  his  son's,  I  suppose.  Poor  Bibby's — William, 
I  mean,  William  Smyrthwaite.  Everybody  knew  him 
as  Bibby." 

"Yes,"  Challoner  said,  "his  son,  William  Smyrth- 
waite. Of  course  I  am  aware  something  went  wrong 
there,  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Colonel,  I  have  never 
got  fairly  at  the  story." 

"Well  you  may  take  it  from  me  the  story  is  a  dis- 
graceful one.  I  am  a  man  of  the  world,  Challoner,  and 
not  squeamish.  I  can  make  excuses,  but,  you  may 
take  it  from  me,  young  Smyrthwaite  was  a  hopelessly 
bad  lot.  A  low,  vicious,  ill-conditioned  young  fellow — 
degenerate,  that  is  the  only  word,  I  am  sorry  to  say. 
He  was  several  years  younger  than  his  sisters.  I  heard 
all  about  it  at  the  time  through  friends.  There  were 
nasty  rumors  about  him  at  Rugby,  and  he  was  ex- 
pelled— quite  properly.  His  father  put  him  into  the 
business.  Then  things  happened  at  Leeds — gambling, 
chorus  girls,  drink.  I  need  not  go  into  particulars. 
There  was  some  question,  too,  of  embezzlement,  and 
young  Smyrthwaite  had  to  disappear.  It  was  a  ter- 
rible blow  to  his  father.     He  decided  to  leave  Leeds.     He 

54 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

came  south,  bought  the  Tower  House  and  settled  here. 
I  think  he  was  quite  right.  The  position  was  a  very 
humiliating  one,  especially  for  his  wife  and  daughters." 

Joseph  Challoner  listened  carefully. 

"And  what  became  of  the  boy?" 

"Oh,  dead  —  fortunately  for  everybody  concerned, 
dead." 

"Dead?  Very  fortunate.  But  a  proven  case  of 
death  or  only  an  accepted  one?" 

"Oh,  proven,  I  take  it.  Yes,  unquestionably  proven. 
I  never  heard  there  was  the  slightest  doubt  about  that." 

"What  a  chattering  fool  the  old  bird  is!"  Challoner 
said  to  himself  irreverently,  adding,  aloud :  "  Apparently, 
then,  we  may  leave  Master  Bibby  out  of  our  count. 
That's  a  good  thing,  anyhow.  I  am  extremely  obliged 
to  you  for  giving  me  such  a  clear  account  of  the  whole 
matter,  Colonel.  It  explains  a  great  deal.  Really  I 
can't  be  sufficiently  glad  that  I  happened  to  run  across 
you  this  afternoon.  I  may  call  it  providential.  But 
now  to  go  back  to  another  young  gentleman,  Miss 
Joanna's  coexecutor,  who  is  not  in  the  very  least  dead." 

"  Yes  ?"  Haig  inquired,  with  avidity.  "  Speak  without 
reserve,  Challoner.  Ask  me  anything  you  are  in  any 
difficulty  about." 

"I  don't  want  to  abuse  your  good  nature.  And  I 
don't  forget  you  have  seen  a  lot  more  of  the  world  than 
I  have.  Your  point  of  view  may  be  different.  I  shall 
be  only  too  glad  if  you  can  reassure  me.  For  I  tell  you, 
Colonel,  it  makes  me  uneasy.  England's  good  enough 
for  me,  England  and  Englishmen.  I  may  be  narrow- 
minded  and  insular,  but  I  can  do  without  the  for- 
eigner." 

"Yes,  and  I'm  not  sure  you  are  not  right  in  that," 
the  other  said,  rising  at  another  clever  cast.     "Yes?" 

"I  am  glad  you  agree.  Well,  this  coexecutor  whom 
we  have  to  look  after  is,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  a 
foreigner,  that  is  to  say,  born  abroad — a  Parisian  and  a 

55 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

journalist.  Ah,  exactly!  I  am  not  sorry  to  see  it 
strikes  you  as  it  did  me,  Colonel,  when  poor  Mr.  Smyrth- 
waite  first  broached  the  subject.  Doesn't  sound  very 
substantial,  does  it?  And  when  you  remember  the 
amount  of  money  that  will  pass  through  his  hands! 
Still  you  may  be  able  to  reassure  me.  By  the  way,  I 
suppose  he  must  be  a  relative  of  yours.  His  name  is 
Adrian  Savage." 

"Never  heard  of  him  in  my  life,"  Haig  exclaimed, 
irritably.  Then,  afraid  he  had  altogether  too  roundly 
given  away  his  ignorance,  he  went  on: 

"  But  wait  a  moment,  wait !  Yes,  now  I  come  to  think, 
I  do  recollect  that  one  of  the  Savages,  a  younger  son, 
went  into  the  medical  profession.  I  never  saw  anything 
of  him.  There  was  a  strong  feeling  in  the  family  about 
it.  Like  marriage  with  a  dissenter,  they  felt  doctoring 
wasn't  exactly  the  thing  for  a  Savage.  So  he  was  ad- 
vised, if  he  must  follow  the  medical  profession,  to  follow 
it  at  a  distance.  I  remember  I  heard  he  settled  in  Paris 
and  married  there.  This  journalist  fellow  may  be  a  son 
of  his."  The  speaker  cleared  his  throat.  He  was  put 
about,  uncertain  what  line  it  would  be  best  to  take. 
"  At  one  time  I  used  to  be  over  there  often.  As  a  young 
man  I  knew  my  Paris  well  enough — " 

"I'll  be  bound  you  did,  Colonel,"  Challoner  put  in, 
with  a  flattering  suggestiveness.  "Silly  old  goat!"  he 
said  to  himself. 

"Yes,  I  do  not  deny  I  have  amused  myself  there  a 
little  in  the  past,"  the  other  acknowledged.  "  But  some- 
how I  never  looked  Doctor  Savage  up.  It  was  un- 
friendly, perhaps,  but — well — in  point  of  fact  I  never 
did." 

"Had  neater  and  sweeter  things  to  look  up,  eh, 
Colonel?"  Challoner  put  in  again.  "I  believe  you. 
Wish  I'd  ever  had  your  luck." 

Here  resisted  laughter  got  the  better  of  him,  jarring 
the  quiet  of  the  woods  with  a  coarseness  of  quality 

56 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

startling  even  to  his  own  ears.  Nothing  betrays  lack  of 
breeding  more  than  a  laugh.  He  knew  this,  and  it 
galled  him.  He  felt  angry,  and  hastened  in  so  far  as  he 
might  to  recover  himself. 

"Seriously,  though,  joking  apart,  I  very  much  wish, 
as  things  turn  out,  you  had  kept  in  touch  with  the 
doctor,"  he  said.  "Then  you  would  have  been  in  a 
position  to  give  me  your  views  on  this  son  of  his.  Mr. 
Smyrthwaite  seems  to  have  taken  an  awful  fancy  to  him. 
But  I  don't  attach  much  importance  to  that.  He  was 
ill  and  crotchety,  just  in  the  state  of  health  to  take  un- 
reasoning likes  and  dislikes.  And  I  can't  help  being 
anxious,  I  tell  you,  Colonel.  It  does  not  affect  my 
pocket  in  any  way — I'm  not  thinking  of  myself.  And  I 
am  no  sentimentalist.  My  line  of  business  leaves  neither 
time  nor  room  for  that.  Still  I  tell  you  candidly  it  goes 
tremendously  against  the  grain  with  me  to  think  of 
some  irresponsible,  long-haired,  foreign,  Bohemian  chap 
being  mixed  up  with  the  affairs  of  two  refined  English 
gentlewomen  like  the  Miss  Smyrthwaites.  Of  course  he 
may  turn  out  a  less  shadowy  individual  than  I  anticipate. 
Nothing  would  please  me  better  than  that  he  should. 
But,  in  any  case,  I  mean  to  keep  my  eye  upon  him.  He's 
not  going  to  play  hanky-panky  with  the  ladies'  money  if 
Joseph  Challoner  can  prevent  it.  I  hold  myself  respon- 
sible to  you,  as  well  as  to  them  and  to  my  own  con- 
science, Colonel,  to  keep  things  straight." 

"I  am  confident  you  will  do  your  best,"  the  other 
replied,  graciously.  "And  I  trust  you  to  consult  me 
whenever  you  think  fit.  Don't  hesitate  to  make  use  of 
me. 

"I  won't,  Colonel.  Make  yourself  easy  on  that  point. 
I  am  greatly  indebted  to  you.     I  won't." 

The  end  of  the  long  avenue  had  come  into  sight,  where, 
between  high  stone  gate-posts — surmounted  by  just- 
lighted  gas-lamps — it  opens  upon  the  main  road  and 
tram-line    running    from    Stourmouth    to    Barry  port. 

57 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

After  the  silence  and  solitude  of  the  woods  the  street 
appeared  full  of  movement.  A  row  of  shop-fronts,  across 
the  roadway,  threw  a  yellow  glare  over  the  pavement  and 
on  to  the  snow-heaps  piled  in  the  gutter.  The  overhead 
wires  hummed  in  the  frosty  air.  A  gang  of  boys  snow- 
balled one  another  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  scattering 
before  some  passing  cart,  and  rushed  back,  shouting, 
to  renew  the  fight.  Groups  of  home-going  workmen 
tramped  along  the  pavement,  their  breath  and  the  smoke 
of  their  pipes  making  a  mist  about  their  heads  in  the 
cold  winter  dusk. 

Challoner  held  out  a  paw-like  hand. 

"You'll  excuse  me  if  I  leave  you,  Colonel?"  he  said. 
"I  have  outstayed  my  time  already.  I  am  afraid  I 
must  be  getting  home — a  lot  of  work  waiting  for  me. 
Good-night." 

He  turned  away.  Then,  just  inside  the  gates,  a 
sudden  thought  apparently  striking  him,  he  hesitated 
and  came  back. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,' "  I  had  been  meaning  to  write 
a  line  to  you  to-day,  but  this  sad  business  at  the  Tower 
House  put  it  clean  out  of  my  head.  I  may  just  as  well 
ask  you  by  word  of  mouth.  It'll  save  you  the  bother 
of  a  note.  Woodford  has  nominated  me  for  election 
at  the  club.  Your  name,  as  one  of  the  oldest  and 
most  influential  members,  of  course,  carries  much 
weight.  If  you  second  me  you'll  do  me  a  great  kind- 
ness." 

Here  the  towering,  well-lighted  tram  from  Barry  port 
sailed  majestically  up,  with  a  long-drawn  growl,  ending 
in  a  heavy  clang  and  thin  shriek  as  the  powerful  brakes 
gripped,  bringing  it  to  a  stop. 

"All  right.  I  may  take  it  for  settled,  then.  I  have 
your  promise.  Really  I  am  awfully  obliged  to  you. 
Don't  let  me  make  you  miss  your  tram,  though.  Hi! 
conductor,  steady  a  minute.  Colonel  Haig's  going  with 
you. — Thanks,  Colonel,  good-night,"  Challoner  cried,  all 

58 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

in  a  breath,  without  giving  the  hustled,  harried,  almost 
apoplectic  ex-warrior  time  to  utter  a  syllable  good  or 
bad. 

"Had  him  neatly,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  turned 
once  more  into  the  stillness  and  twilight  of  the  woods. 
"  He  can't  back  out — daren't  back  out.     Their  swagger, 

aristocratic,    d your  -  impudence    Stourmouth    Club 

taken  by  assault!" 

And  again  he  laughed,  but  this  time  the  coarse  quality 
of  the  sound  failed  to  jar  him.  On  the  contrary,  he 
rather  relished  its  stridency.  He  was  winning  all  along 
the  line,  so  he  could  afford — for  a  little  while  here  alone 
under  the  snow-laden  fir-trees  in  the  deepening  dusk — 
to  be  himself. 

In  the  hall  at  Heatherleigh  his  man-servant — a  thin, 
yellowish,  gentle,  anxious-looking  person,  who  played 
the  part  of  shuttlecock  to  the  battledores  of  his  strong 
master  and  of  a  commanding  wife,  ten  years  his  senior — 
met  him. 

"Mr.  Pewsey  is  waiting  for  you  in  the  smoke-room, 
sir,"  he  said,  while  helping  Challoner  off  with  the  pepper- 
and-salt-mixture  overcoat.  "And  Mrs.  Spencer,  sir, 
called  to  leave  this  note.  She  said  there  was  no  answer, 
but  I  was  to  be  sure  and  give  it  to  you  directly  you  came 
in." 

Challoner  took  the  note,  and  stopped  for  a  minute  un- 
der the  hanging,  colored-glass  gas-lantern  to  read  it. 
It  was  written  in  a  large,  showy,  yet  tentative  hand, 
on  highly  scented  mauve  paper  with  a  white  border  to 
it,  and  ran  thus: 

"B.  gone  to  Mary  church  to  dine  and  sleep.  Alone. 
Come  round  if  you  can  after  dinner.  Want  you.  Quite 
safe.     Love.  Gwynnie." 

Challoner  rolled  the  small  scented  sheet  into  a  ball 
and  tossed  it  viciously  on  to  the  fire,  watching  till  the 
flame  licked  it  up. 

"  No,  there's  no  answer.  Quite  true,  Mrs.  Gwynnie — 
5  59 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

even  less  answer  than  you  suppose  or  will  in  the  least 
bit  like,"  he  said,  between  his  teeth. 

Then  he  opened  the  door  and  passed  into  the  smoking- 
room  to  join  his  junior  partner,  with  a  quite  expression- 
less face. 


CHAPTER  V 

PASSAGES    FROM    JOANNA    SMYRTHWAITE's    LOCKED    BOOK 

YOU   won't  go  sitting  up  writing  to-night,   Miss 
Joanna  ?     You  should  get  right  into  bed,  for  you 
are  properly  worn  out." 

"It  would  be  useless  for  me  to  attempt  to  sleep  yet, 
Isherwood,  but  I  shall  not  sit  up  late." 

This,  between  two  women  standing  on  the  gallery  of 
the  spacious,  heavily  carpeted  stair-head.  Save  for  the 
feeble  light  of  their  glass-shaded  candles  the  place  was 
in  darkness.  The  atmosphere,  oppressive  from  the  heat 
given  off  by  radiators  in  the  hall  below  and  upon  the 
landing  itself,  was  permeated  by  the  clinging  odor  of 
some  disinfectant.  They  spoke  in  subdued  voices,  cov- 
ered and  whispering  as  those  of  reverent-minded  per- 
sons unwillingly  compelled  to  hold  conversation  in 
church.  The  northeasterly  wind — which,  at  this  same 
hour,  cried  homeless  along  the  steep  house-roofs  of 
the  Quai  Malaquais  to  the  disturbance  of  Gabrielle  St. 
Leger's  meditations  upon  the  deceptions  of  modern  mar- 
riage— raked  the  thick-set  fir  and  pine  trees  bordering 
the  carriage-drive  outside,  and  shattered  against  the 
elaborately  leaded  panes  of  the  high  staircase  windows, 
making  the  thick  velvet  curtains  which  covered  them 
sway  and  quiver  in  the  draught. 

"  You  had  better  let  me  wait  and  brush  your  hair  as 
usual,  Miss  Joanna.  It  might  soothe  your  nerves,"  the 
elder  of  the  two  women  said.  She  was  a  comely,  vigilant- 
eyed  person,  a  touch  of  mustache  on  her  long  upper  lip 
and  a  ruddiness  upon  her  high  cheek-bones  as  of  sun- 

61 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

ripened  fruit.  Though  well  on  in  the  sixties,  her  car- 
riage was  upright,  and  her  hair,  looped  window-curtain 
fashion  over  her  ears  and  plaited  in  a  round  at  the  back 
of  her  head,  still  showed  as  black  as  her  close-fitted  black 
silk  dress.  First  nurse  in  the  Smyrthwaite  family,  now 
for  many  years  lady's  maid  and  housekeeper,  capable, 
prejudiced,  caustic  of  speech,  untiring  in  faithful  devo- 
tion to  those — the  very  few — whom  she  loved,  Mrs. 
Isherwood,  virgin  and  spinster,  represented  a  domestic 
type  becoming  all  too  rapidly  extinct. 

The  younger  woman  made  no  immediate  answer.  Her 
bearing  and  attitude  bespoke  a  great  lassitude  as  she 
stood  resting  her  right  hand  on  the  ball  of  the  newel- 
post.  The  light  of  the  candle  she  carried  was  thrown 
upward,  showing  a  face  making  but  small  claim  to 
beauty.  A  thick,  pasty  complexion,  straight,  heavy, 
yellowish  auburn  hair  turned  back  over  a  pad  from  the 
high,  square  forehead.  No  sufficient  softening  of  the 
pale,  anxious,  blue-gray  eyes  by  eyelash  or  eyebrow. 
An  acquiline  nose  with  upcut  winged  nostrils,  and 
a  mouth,  which,  but  for  the  compression  of  the  lips, 
might  have  argued  a  certain  coarseness  of  nature.  A 
face,  in  fine,  almost  painful  in  its  effect  of  studied  self- 
repression,  patient  as  it  was  unsatisfied,  an  arrested, 
consciously  resisted  violence  of  feeling  perceptible  in 
every  line  of  it. 

"  I  could  hardly  bear  having  my  hair  brushed  to-night, 
I  am  afraid,  Isherwood,"  she  said,  presently.  "I  am 
really  only  fit  to  be  alone.  You  say  Margaret  is  quite 
composed  now?     You  think  she  will  sleep?" 

"Oh!  dear  me,  yes,  Miss  Joanna,  Miss  Margaret  will 
sleep.  She  drank  a  full  tumbler  of  hot  milk  and  fairly 
settled  off  before  I  left  her.  I  wish  I  was  half  as  easy 
about  your  night's  rest  as  I  am  about  hers." 

"My  good  Isherwood,"  Miss  Smyrthwaite  said,  softly, 
as  she  moved  away  across  the  landing.  Suddenly  she 
paused  and  came  hurriedly  back. 

62 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"  Isherwood,  Isherwood,"  she  called  under  her  breath, 
"the  smell  of  that  disinfectant  seems  so  very  strong. 
You're  sure  the  door  of — of  papa's  room  is  shut  and 
locked?" 

"Dear  me,  yes,  Miss  Joanna.  I  have  the  key  here  in 
my  pocket.  Mr.  Smallbridge  and  I  went  in  the  last 
thing  before  I  came  up,  and  I  locked  the  door  myself. 
You've  got  the  smell  of  that  nasty  stuff  in  your  nose. 
Anybody  would,  the  amount  those  nurses  used  of  it! 
Now  you  promise  you'll  ring,  Miss  Joanna,  if  you  should 
feel  nervous  or  poorly  in  the  night  ?  You  know  it  never 
troubles  me  the  least  to  get  up." 

"My  good  Isherwood!"  the  younger  woman  said  again. 

From  the  age  of  fourteen  Joanna  Smyrthwaite  had 
been  encouraged  to  keep  a  diary.  For  the  diary  was  an 
acknowledged  part  of  the  system  of  feminine  education — 
"forming  the  character,"  it  used  euphemistically  to  be 
called — that  obtained  so  largely  among  serious-minded 
persons  of  leisure  during  the  earlier  half  of  the  Victorian 
Era.  Thoughtfulness,  reserve,  methodical  habits,  the 
saving  of  time,  hands  never  unemployed,  the  conforming 
of  one's  own  conduct  to  and  testing  of  the  conduct  of 
others  by  certain  wholly  arbitrary  and  conventional 
standards — these  nominal  rather  than  real  virtues  were 
perpetually  pressed  home  upon  the  minds  and  con- 
sciences of  the  "well-brought-up"  female  child.  In- 
evitable reaction  carried  the  majority  of  fin-de-siecle 
female  children  notably  far  in  the  quite  opposite  direc- 
tion. But  in  some  instances  the  older  system  survived 
its  appointed  span — that  of  the  Smyrthwaite  family 
may  be  cited  as  a  case  in  point.  The  consequences  were 
of  doubtful  benefit ;  since  conditions  have  changed,  and 
adaptability  to  environment  is  a  necessity  of  mental  as 
well  as  of  physical  health. 

Joanna  Smyrthwaite  was  now  in  her  twenty-ninth 
year.  She  still  kept  a  diary.  Written  in  a  very  small, 
neat,   scholarly  hand,   it  filled  many  octavo  volumes, 

63 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

bound  in  dark-purple  leather,  each  with  a  clasp  and  lock 
to  it,  her  initials  and  the  date  stamped  in  gold  lettering 
on  the  back.  She  was  a  diarist  absolutely  innocent  of 
any  thought  or  wish  of  eventual  print.  A  fierce  mod- 
esty, indeed,  overlay  the  whole  matter  of  her  diary. 
That  it  should  be  secret,  unseen  by  any  eyes  save  her 
own,  gave  it  its  value.  She  regarded  it  with  a  singular 
jealousy  of  possession.  As  nothing  else  belonging  to  her, 
her  diaries  were  exclusively,  inviolably  her  own.  It 
may  almost  be  asserted  that  she  took  refuge  in  them,  as 
weaker  women,  under  stress  of  unsatisfied  passion,  will 
take  refuge  in  a  drug. 

And  so  to-night,  without  waiting  to  make  any  change 
in  her  dress,  feverishly,  as  one  at  last  set  free  from 
unwelcome  observation,  she'  pushed  back  the  cylinder 
of  the  handsome  satinwood  bureau  in  her  bedroom, 
set  lighted  candles  upon  the  flat  desk  of  it,  took  the  cur- 
rent volume  of  the  diary  out  of  one  of  the  pigeon-holes, 
and  sat  down,  her  thin  hands  trembling  with  mingled 
fatigue  and  excitement,  to  write. 

"  Wednesday,  Jan.  12,  igo- 
"It  has  been  impossible  to  put  down  anything  for 
some  days.  The  strain  of  nursing  and  the  demands 
upon  my  time  have  been  incessant  and  too  great.  I  do 
not  know  that  I  am  justified  in  writing  to-night.  Isher- 
wood  begged  me  not  to  do  so,  but  it  is  a  relief.  It  will 
quiet  me,  and  bring  me  into  a  more  normal  relation  to 
myself  and  to  my  own  thought.  For  days  I  have  been  a 
mere  beast  of  burden,  bearing  the  anxieties  of  the  sick- 
room and  of  the  household  upon  my  back.  My  intel- 
lectual life  has  been  at  a  standstill.  I  have  read  nothing, 
not  even  the  newspapers— The  Times  or  last  week's 
Spectator.  There  has  been  perpetual  friction  between 
the  servants  and  the  nurses  which  I  have  had  to  adjust. 
Margaret  could  not  be  looked  to  for  help  in  this.  She  is 
too  easily  influenced,  being  disposed  always  to  take  sides 

64 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

with  the  person  who  last  spoke  to  her.  Mr.  Savage  can- 
not arrive  before  to-morrow  afternoon.  I  am  glad  of 
this  breathing  space,  for  the  thought  of  his  coming  is 
oppressive  to  me.  He  appeared  so  lively  and  so  much  a 
man  of  society,  when  we  met  him  in  Paris,  that  I  felt  shy 
and  awkward  in  talking  to  him.  But  it  is  useless  to 
dwell  upon  this.  He  is  coming.  I  must  accept  the 
fact.  My  head  aches.  I  keep  on  fancying  there  are 
strange  sounds  in  the  house.  But,  as  Isherwood  says, 
I  am  overtired.  I  meant  to  state  quite  simply  what 
has  occurred  since  I  last  wrote ;  but  I  find  it  difficult  to 
concentrate  my  attention. 

"  Papa  died  just  before  five  o'clock  this  morning.  It 
was  snowing  and  the  wind  was  high.  Isherwood  and  I 
were  in  the  room,  with  the  night-nurse.  Margaret  had 
gone  to  lie  down  and  I  did  not  call  her.  She  has  re- 
proached me  for  this  since  and  will  probably  continue 
to  do  so.  Perhaps  I  acted  wrongly  in  not  calling  her, 
but  I  was  dazed.  Everything  appeared  unreal,  and  I 
did  not  grasp  what  was  occurring  until  they  told  me. 
We  had  watched  so  long  that  I  had  grown  dull  and 
unresponsive.  I  was  sitting  upon  the  ottoman — in 
which  mamma's  evening  gowns  used  to  be  kept — at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  when  Isherwood  came  close  to  me  and 
said,  'Miss  Joanna,  Mr.  Smyrthwaite's  going.'  I  said, 
'Where?'  not  understanding  what  she  meant.  'You 
had  better  be  quick,'  the  night-nurse  said.  Her  manner 
has  never  been  respectful.  I  got  up  and  went  to  the 
side  of  the  bed.  Papa's  eyes  were  open.  They  seemed 
to  stare  at  something  which  made  him  angry.  He  used 
to  look  thus  at  poor  Bibby.  I  felt  a  spirit  of  oppo- 
sition arise  in  me.  This  I  now  regret,  for  it  was  not 
a  proper  state  of  mind.  Presently  the  night-nurse  felt 
his  pulse  and  held  a  hand-mirror  to  his  mouth.  I  saw 
that  the  surface  of  it  remained  unblurred.  She  looked 
across  at  Isherwood  and  nodded  familiarly.  '  I  thought 
so,'  she  said.     Then  I  understood  that  papa  was  dead; 

65 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

and  I  felt  sorry  for  him,  both  because  I  knew  how  much 
he  disliked  the  idea  of  dying,  and  also  because  I  should 
never  be  afraid  of  him  any  more. 

"The  night-nurse  said,  quite  out  loud — her  offhand 
way  of  speaking  has  struck  me,  all  along,  as  objection- 
able^— '  There  is  no  reason  Miss  Smyrthwaite  should  stop 
any  longer.  I  always  prefer  to  do  the  laying-out  by 
myself.     I  get  through  with  it  so  much  quicker.' 

'"Isherwood  will  remain,'  I  said.  I  felt  it  right  to 
assert  my  authority,  and  I  so  dread  the  upper  servants 
being  annoyed.  It  makes  everything  so  difficult  to 
manage. 

"'That  is  quite  unnecessary,'  she  answered.  'If  I 
require  assistance  for  lifting  I  can  call  Nurse  Bagot. 
She  will  be  coming  on  duty  anyhow  in  another  hour,  and 
as  the  case  is  over  I  should  not  mind  disturbing  her. 
She  can  finish  her  rest  later.' 

"'But  I  wish  Mrs.  Isherwood  to  remain,'  I  repeated. 

"'Of  course  I  shall  stay,  Miss  Joanna,'  Isherwood  said. 
'It  is  my  place  to  do  so.  It  is  not  suitable  or  likely 
I  should  leave  the  laying-out  to  strangers.  Besides,  I 
do  not  take  orders  from  anybody  in  this  house  but  you 
or  Miss  Margaret.' 

"  To  have  a  wrangle  just  then  was  painful ;  but  I  think 
both  Isherwood  and  I  spoke  under  great  provocation. 

"Afterward  I  went  to  Margaret.  It  was  still  dark, 
and  I  heard  the  wind  and  snow  driving  against  the  pas- 
sage windows.  I  found  Margaret  difficult  to  awaken. 
When  I  told  her,  she  became  hysterical  and  said  I  ought 
to  have  spoken  less  suddenly.  But  Margaret  cries 
readily.  I  believe  it  is  a  relief  to  her  and  enables  her  to 
get  over  trouble  more  easily.  I  have  had  no  disposition 
to  cry  so  far,  yet  I  have  been  much  more  of  a  com- 
panion to  papa  than  Margaret  ever  has.  Latterly,  in 
particular,  she  avoided  being  with  him  on  the  plea  that 
it  was  too  exhausting  for  her.  Sometimes  I  have 
thought  her  selfish.     When  I  asked  her  to  sit  with  him 

66 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

she  was  so  ready  with  excuses.  Still  he  cared  for  her 
more  than  for  me.  She  is  pretty  and  I  am  not — less 
than  ever  now,  my  eyes  look  so  tired  and  have  red  rims 
to  them — and  then  Margaret  never  opposed  him.  She 
has  a  way  of  slipping  out  of  things  without  expressing  a 
direct  opinion.  I  did  oppose  him  during  the  terrible 
troubles  about  poor  Bibby,  and  when  he  spoke  harshly 
or  sarcastically  before  mamma.  And  I  kept  him  at 
Carlsbad,  away  from  mamma,  during  the  last  days  of  her 
illness,  by  telegraphing  false  reports  to  him.  That  is 
nearly  eight  years  ago.  He  never  actually  knew  that  I 
had  deceived  him,  unless  Margaret  has  hinted  at  it,  and 
I  hardly  think  she  would  dare  do  so — she  is  not  very 
courageous — but  he  suspected  something,  and  he  never 
forgave  me,  although  he  gradually  grew  more  and  more 
dependent  upon  me.  I  have  examined  my  conscience 
strictly,  and  it  is  clear  in  relation  to  him.  Yet  he  looked 
angry  this  morning  when  he  was  dead.  I  suppose  I 
shall  always  think  of  him  as  looking  angry.  But  I  think 
I  do  not  care.  How  extraordinary  it  is  to  feel  that — 
to  feel  that  I  have  ceased  to  mind,  to  be  afraid. 

"I  sent  round  quite  early  to  Heatherleigh  for  Mr. 
Challoner.  He  came  at  once.  He  strongly  expressed  the 
wish  to  do  all  he  can  to  help  me,  and  inquired  more  than 
once  for  Margaret.  He  said  that,  directly  he  heard  of 
papa's  death,  he  thought  of  Margaret,  as  he  feared  she 
would  be  prostrated  by  the  shock.  He  said  she  im- 
pressed him  as  so  fragile  and  so  sensitive.  The  words 
struck  me  because  it  had  never  occurred  to  me  that 
Margaret  was  fragile.  She  has  better  health  than  I  have. 
She  is  more  excitable  than  I  am,  and  easily  gets  into  a 
fuss,  but  I  do  not  think  her  particularly  sensitive. 
Probably  it  was  just  Mr.  Challoner's  way  of  expressing 
himself,  but  I  cannot  think  the  terms  are  particularly 
applicable.  I  am  afraid  Mr.  Challoner  is  vexed  at 
papa  having  appointed  Mr.  Savage  my  coexecutor.  He 
intimated    that    Margaret    had   been    slighted   by   the 

67 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

arrangement.  I  may  do  him  an  injustice,  but  I  fancy 
he  is  disappointed  at  not  being  executor  himself.  In  this 
I  am  not  to  blame.  As  I  told  him,  I  should  have  pre- 
ferred to  act  with  him  rather  than  with  Mr.  Savage,  as  he 
knows  so  much  about  the  property.  I  told  him  I  urged 
papa,  in  as  far  as  I  could,  to  give  up  the  idea  of  appoint- 
ing Mr.  Savage.  I  think  this  pleased  him.  He  kindly 
sent  off  the  telegram  to  Mr.  Savage  for  me  and  the 
obituary  notices  for  the  newspapers  himself.  He  said 
he  would  call  later  in  the  day  to  inquire  for  Margaret, 
and  to  see  if  there  was  anything  further  he  could  do  for 
us.  I  told  Margaret  this.  She  became  more  composed 
when  she  knew  he  was  coming,  and  ceased  reproaching 
me  for  not  having  called  her  when  papa  was  dying. 
She  said  she  should  be  glad  to  see  Mr.  Challoner.  She 
has  always  liked  him  better  than  I  have.  He  is  clever, 
but  uncultivated.  But  Margaret  has  never  really  cared 
about  culture.  I  know  mamma  feared  she  might  become 
frivolous  and  worldly  if  she  was  not  under  intellectual 
influences.  If  mamma  had  only  lived  till  now! — I  dare 
not  develop  all  I  mean  in  saying  that.  I  foresee  diffi- 
culties with  Margaret.  I  earnestly  hope  she  will  not 
take  up  the  idea  she  has  been  slighted.  I  do  not  want  to 
put  myself  forward,  yet  it  is  my  duty  not  only  to  carry 
out  papa's  instructions,  but,  in  as  far  as  I  know  them, 
mamma's  wishes  also. 

"I  tried  to  word  the  obituary  notices  as  papa  would 
have  liked.  Perhaps  I  should  have  inserted  the  words 
Liberal  and  Unitarian,  so  as  to  define  his  political  and 
religious  position.  Yet  he  differed  from  the  main  body 
of  Unitarians  on  so  many  points  and  condemned  so 
many  modern  Liberal  tendencies  and  measures  that  I 
did  not  feel  justified  in  employing  those  terms.  They 
are  generic,  and,  as  it  appeared  to  me,  committed  him 
to  views  he  had  long  ceased  actually  to  hold.  I  should 
have  consulted  Margaret,  but  she  was  very  fretful  just 
then;    and  it  was  useless  to  ask  Mr.  Challoner,  as  he 

68 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

would  not  appreciate  fine  distinctions,  I  fancy.  So  I 
simply  put  'At  his  residence,  the  Tower  House,  Baug- 
hurst  Park  Estate,  Stourmouth,  Hants,  Montagu 
Priestly  Smyrthwaite,  formerly  of  the  Priestly  Mills  and 
of  Highdene,  Leeds,  aged  seventy-six.  No  flowers,  by 
special  request.'  I  suppose  Andrew  Merriman  and 
others  from  the  mills  will  attend  the  funeral.  I  dread 
seeing  Andrew  Merriman  again.  It  will  bring  back  all 
the  terrible  trouble  about  poor  Bibby.  And  I  cannot 
think  how  Mr.  Savage  will  get  on  with  the  people  from 
the  mills.  It  would  have  been  simpler  to  have  Mr. 
Challoner  act  officially  in  the  capacity  of  host.  I  dare 
not  think  much  about  the  funeral. 

"After  luncheon  I  filled  in  their  papers  and  dismissed 
the  nurses.  I  think  they  expected  some  present,  but  I 
did  not  feel  it  necessary  to  give  them  any.  They  had 
only  done  what  they  were  well  paid  to  do;  and  I  liked 
neither  of  them,  though  Nurse  Bagot  was  the  least  pa- 
tronizing and  interfering.  Their  refusing  to  take  their 
meals  in  the  housekeeper's  room  and  the  upper  servants' 
objection  to  waiting  upon  them  made  arrangements  very 
trying.  I  sympathized  with  the  servants,  but  I  had  to 
consider  the  nurses,  lest  they  should  be  quarrelsome  and 
make  everybody  even  more  uncomfortable.  I  am  thank- 
ful we  had  no  professional  nurses  when  mamma  was  ill, 
and  that  Isherwood  and  I  nursed  her.  But  this  case  was 
different.  We  could  not  have  done  without  professional 
help  even  had  we  wished  to  do  so. 

"I  went  to  papa's  room  this  afternoon,  when  the  un- 
dertakers had  finished  taking  measurements  for  the  cof- 
fin. I  thought  it  my  duty  to  go.  I  supposed  Margaret 
would  have  accompanied  me,  but  she  refused,  saying  it 
would  only  upset  her  again  just  as  she  was  expecting 
Mr.  Challoner.  I  told  her  I  feared  the  servants  might 
think  it  unnatural  and  unfeeling  if  she  did  not  go  into 
the  room  at  all.  She  said  if  she  felt  better  to-morrow 
she  would  make  an  effort  to  go  then.     I  hope  she  will. 

69 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

I  should  not  like  her  to  expose  herself  to  criticism,  even 
though  unspoken,  on  the  part  of  the  servants.  One  of 
our  first  duties,  now  we  are  alone,  is  to  set  an  example 
to  the  household.  I  think  she  is  wrong  in  putting  off 
going.  It  will  not  be  any  less  painful  to-morrow  than 
to-day.  And  if  I  can  bear  it,  she  should  be  able  to  bear 
it.  We  are  different,  but  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  Mar- 
garet's superior  in  any  way. 

"The  room  was  very  cold.  I  suppose  I  remarked  this 
particularly  because  of  the  high  temperature  which  has 
been  kept  up  in  it  for  so  many  weeks.  The  upper  sashes 
of  all  the  windows  were  open  behind  the  drawn  blinds, 
which  the  air  alternately  inflated  and  sucked  outward. 
This  made  an  unpleasant  dragging  sound.  I  was  foolish 
to  mind  it,  but  I  am  tired.  There  was  a  sheet  over  the 
bed,  which  was  quite  proper;  but  there  were  sheets  over 
the  toilet-glass,  the  cheval-glass,  and  the  mirror  above 
the  chimneypiece  also.  This  must  have  been  Isher- 
wood's  doing.  It  placed  me  in  a  difficulty.  I  did  not 
want  to  hurt  her  feelings,  but  I  know  papa  would  have 
disapproved.  He  was  so  intolerant  of  all  superstition, 
that  the  ignorant  notion  any  one  might  see  the  dead 
person's  face  reflected  in  a  looking-glass  in  the  death- 
chamber,  and  that  it  would  bring  misfortune,  would 
have  made  him  extremely  angry.  He  was  contemptu- 
ous of  uneducated  people  and  of  their  ideas.  I  had 
begun  taking  the  sheet  off  the  cheval-glass  when  I 
saw  that  Margaret's  gray  Persian  cat  was  in  the  room. 
I  suppose  it  must  have  slipped  in  beside  me  with- 
out my  noticing  it.  The  light  was  very  dim  and  I 
was  thinking  only  of  my  own  feelings.  I  called  it,  in 
a  whisper,  but  it  ran  away  from  me  mewing.  It  went 
twice  right  round  the  bed,  squeezing  in  between  the 
head  of  it  and  the  wall.  It  stood  upon  its  hind-legs, 
and  then  crouched,  preparing  to  spring  up  over  the  foot- 
board. I  drove  it  away,  but  it  kept  on  mewing.  It  hid 
under  the  bed  and  I  could  not  dislodge  it.     I  was  afraid 

70 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

to  go  across  and  ring  the  bell  lest  it  should  attempt  to 
spring  up  again.  The  room  grew  dark.  It  was  weak  of 
me,  but  I  felt  helpless  and  nervous.  I  seemed  to  see  a 
movement  upon  the  bed,  as  though  some  one  was  trying 
to  crawl  from  underneath  the  sheet  and  had  not  sufficient 
strength  to  do  so.  No  doubt  this  was  the  result  of  my 
brain  being  so  exhausted  by  sleeplessness  and  anxiety, 
but  I  could  not  reason  with  myself  just  then.  It  seemed 
quite  real  and  it  terrified  me.  I  was  afraid  I  should 
scream.  At  last  Isherwood  came.  She  had  missed  me 
and  came  to  look  for  me.  I  could  not  explain  at  first, 
but  when  she  understood,  she  called  Sarah,  the  second 
housemaid,  of  whom  the  cat  is  fond.  Sarah  was  fright- 
ened at  entering  the  room,  and  Isherwood  had  to  speak 
sharply  to  her.  It  was  all  very  dreadful.  At  last  Sarah 
coaxed  the  cat  from  under  the  bed.  Isherwood  knelt 
down  and  pushed  it  behind  with  a  broom.  When  Sarah 
had  taken  it  away,  I  lost  my  self-control  and  was  quite 
overcome.  I  felt  and  spoke  bitterly  about  the  maids' 
and  Margaret's  carelessness.  During  the  whole  of  papa's 
illness  the  cat  has  been  kept  out  of  the  south  wing,  and 
it  would  have  been  so  easy  to  exercise  care  a  little  longer. 
I  said  it  appeared  things  were  intentionally  neglected 
now  that  papa's  authority  is  withdrawn,  and  that  those 
who  formerly  cringed  to  him  now  took  pleasure  in  defy- 
ing his  orders  and  wishes.  This  was  an  exaggerated 
statement;  but  the  incident  brought  home  to  me  how 
little  any  person,  even  the  most  important  and  auto- 
cratic, matters  as  soon  as  he  or  she  is  dead.  Death  does 
more  than  level,  it  obliterates. 

"  Moreover,  I  could  not  rid  my  mind  of  the  thought  of 
those  feeble,  ineffectual  movements  beneath  the  sheet. 
This  added  to  my  distress  and  nervousness.  I  asked 
Isherwood  to  uncover  the  bed  so  that  I  might  assure  my- 
self the  body  remained  in  the  same  position.  I  looked 
closely  at  it,  though  it  was  extremely  painful  to  me  to  do 
so.     The  eyes  were  now  closed,  but  the  face  was  still 

7i 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

severe,  expressive  of  disapproval.  Why,  and  for  what? 
Obviously  it  is  useless  to  disapprove  of  whatever  may 
follow  death— if,  indeed,  anything  does,  sensibly,  follow 
it.  Papa's  belief  in  the  survival  of  consciousness  and 
individuality  was  of  the  slightest.  So  is  mine.  The  so- 
called  'future  life'  is,  I  fear,  but  a  'fond  thing  vainly 
imagined.'  The  extinction  of  myriads  of  intelligent, 
highly  organized  and  highly  gifted  beings  after  a  few 
years — few,  as  against  the  vast  stretch  of  astral  or 
geologic  periods — of  earthly  struggle,  suffering,  and  at- 
tainment appears  incredibly  wasteful.  But  that  con- 
stitutes no  valid  argument  against  extinction — at  least, 
in  my  opinion,  it  would  be  weakly  optimistic  to  accept  it 
as  a  valid  one.  A  very  superficial  study  of  biology  con- 
vinces one  of  the  supreme  indifference  of  Nature  to  waste. 
As  far  as  sentient  living  creatures,  other  than  man,  are 
concerned,  Nature  is  certainly  no  economist.  She  de- 
stroys as  lavishly  as  she  creates.  Therefore  it  is  safer 
to  eliminate  all  hope  of  restitution  or  reward  from  one's 
outlook,  and  accustom  oneself  to  the  thought  of  ex- 
tinction. I  have  long  tried  to  school  myself  to  this,  but 
I  find  it  difficult.     I  must  try  harder. 

"  Recalling  the  scene  of  this  afternoon,  I  feel  grateful 
to  Isherwood.  I  was  childishly  unreasonable  and  pas- 
sionate, and  she  was  very  patient  with  me.  She  is  al- 
ways kind  to  me ;  but  I  must  not  permit  myself  to  lean 
too  much  upon  her.  She  is  an  uneducated  woman,  and  has 
the  prejudices  and  supertitions  of  her  class.  To  lean  upon 
her  might  prove  enfeebling  to  my  character  and  judgment. 

"  I  have  not  yet  spoken  to  Margaret  about  the  cat ;  for, 
when  I  was  sufficiently  composed  to  go  down-stairs,  Mr. 
Challoner  had  just  left  and  she  began  talking  about  his 
visit,  which  seemed  to  have  pleased  and  excited  her. 
She  praised  his  thoughtfulness  and  sympathy.  No 
doubt  he  has  valuable  qualities,  but  I  own  something  in 
his  manner  and  way  of  expressing  himself  jars  upon  me. 
He  is  not  quite  gentleman-like  in  mind  or  appearance. 

72 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Margaret  called  me  proud  and  fastidious,  and  added  that 
I  took  pleasure  in  depreciating  those  who  showed  her 
attention.  That  is  neither  true  nor  just,  but  I  will  be 
more  careful  what  I  say  about  people  before  her.  It  is 
unwise  to  be  betrayed  into  discussions  since  she  so  often 
misunderstands  me  and  so  easily  takes  offense.  Later  on 
she  spoke  about  our  mourning.  I  had  not  given  the  sub- 
ject a  thought,  I  admit,  since  there  has  been  so  very  much 
else  to  occupy  me.  I  took  for  granted  Madame  Pell 
would  make  it  for  us,  in  Stourmouth,  as  she  has  done  all 
our  dressmaking  lately.  But  Margaret  said  Madame 
Pell's  things  were  always  rather  old-fashioned  and  that 
she  wished  to  have  our  mourning  from  Grays' .  I  pointed 
out  that  it  would  be  inconvenient  and  unsuitable  for 
either  of  us  to  go  up  to  London,  for  a  day,  just  now.  She 
replied  that  Grays'  would  send  some  one  down  with  a 
selection  for  us  to  choose  from.  I  mentioned  expense. 
Margaret  said  that  need  not  be  considered,  adding: 

"'Mr.  Challoner  tells  me  we  shall  both  be  rich.  For 
years  papa  Has  lived  very  much  below  his  income  and 
has  saved  a  great  deal  of  money.  All  the  property  is 
left  to  you  and  me.     We  shall  each  have  a  large  fortune.' 

"  I  was  annoyed  by  her  tone,  which  struck  me  as  both 
exultant  and  unfeeling.  I  cannot  forget  that  the  greater 
proportion  of  papa's  property  would  have  been  Bibby's, 
and  it  is  dreadful  to  me  that  Margaret  and  I  should 
profit  by  our  brother's  disgrace  and  death. — If  he  is  dead ! 
To  the  last  mamma  believed  he  was  still  alive,  in  hiding 
somewhere.  I  still  believe  it,  and  hope  he  may  come 
back — poor,  darling  Bibby!  Margaret,  I  am  convinced, 
neither  wishes  nor  hopes  this.  She  has  said  more  than 
once,  lately,  that  if  people  do  wrong  it  is  better  to  put 
them  out  of  one's  life  altogether,  and  I  know  she  was 
thinking  of  Bibby.  I  could  never  put  him  out  of  my 
life,  even  if  I  wished  to  do  so.  I  had  the  greatest  difficulty 
to-day  in  not  speaking  of  him  when  she  talked  about 
our  large  fortunes,  but  I  controlled  myself.     I  was  still 

73 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

shaken  by  the  scene  with  her  cat,  and  feared  I  might 
exhibit  temper.  I  did  reason  with  her  about  having  our 
mourning  from  Grays',  as  it  seems  to  me  ostentatious. 
But  she  became  fretful  and  inclined  to  cry  again,  accusing 
me  of  always  wanting  my  own  way  and  of  trying  to  deny 
her  every  little  interest  and  amusement,  so  I  thought  it 
best  to  give  in  to  her. 

"I  promised  Isherwood  I  would  not  sit  up,  so  I  must 
stop  writing.  The  smell  of  the  disinfectant  pursues  and 
disgusts  me,  and  I  go  on  fancying  that  I  hear  strange 
noises  in  the  house.  I  wish  I  could  feel  sorrow  for  papa's 
death.  It  would  be  more  natural.  But  I  feel  none. 
I  only  feel  resentment  against  mamma's  suffering  and 
Bibby's  disgrace.  How  cruel  and  purposeless  the  past 
seems!  And  I  feel  alarm  in  thinking  of  the  future. 
I  cannot  picture  Margaret's  and  my  life  alone  together. 
Will  it  be  cruel  and  purposeless,  too?  I  shall  not  sleep, 
but  I  must  not  break  my  word  to  Isherwood.  I  will 
stop  writing  and  go  to  bed." 

Two  o'clock  had  struck  before  Joanna  Smyrthwaite 
closed  and  locked  her  diary  and  replaced  it  in  the  pigeon- 
hole of  the  satin  wood  bureau.  At  the  same  hour,  away 
in  Paris,  Gabrielle  St.  Leger,  answering  little  Bette's  cry, 
gathered  the  child's  soft,  warm  body  in  her  arms  and 
found  the  solution  of  many  perplexities  in  the  God- 
ordered  discipline  of  mother-love.  The  less  fortunate 
Englishwoman  also  received  comfort — of  a  kind.  Her 
hands  were  stiff  with  cold.  The  small,  neat  writing  on 
the  last  page  of  the  diary  showed  cramped  and  almost 
illegible.  She  was  faint  from  the  long  vigil.  Yet  the 
fever  of  her  spirit  was  somewhat  appeased.  For,  in  thus 
visualizing  and  recording  her  emotions,  in  thus  setting 
the  picture  of  her  life  outside  her,  she  had,  in  a  measure, 
lightened  the  strain  of  it.  The  drug  from  which  she  had 
sought  relief  acted,  so  to  speak,  allaying  the  ache  of  her 
loveless,  unsatisfied  heart. 

74 


CHAPTER   VI 

SOME   CONSEQUENCES    OF   PUTTING    NEW  WINE    INTO    OLD 
BOTTLES 

THE  next  entry  in  Joanna  Smyrthwaite's  diary  dates 
several  days  later.     The  handwriting,  though  quite 
clear,  is  less  neat  and  studied  than  usual. 

"I  have  a  sense  of  crowding  and  confusion,  of  in- 
capacity to  realize  and  deal  with  that  which  is  happening 
around  me  and  in  my  own  thought.  Hence  I  have  de- 
layed writing.  I  hoped  to  attain  composure  and  lucidity; 
but,  since  these  seem  as  far  off  as  ever,  it  is  useless  to 
wait  any  longer.  Possibly  the  act  of  writing  may  help 
me. 

"Mr.  Savage  arrived  on  Thursday,  immediately  after 
luncheon.  We  had  not  expected  him  until  the  evening, 
and  I  felt  unprepared.  I  am  afraid  my  reception  of 
him  was  awkward  and  ungracious,  but  his  quick  speech 
and  brilliant  manner  made  me  nervous.  He  spoke  at 
once  of  his  respect  for  papa,  and  expressed  sympathy 
for  us  in  our  bereavement,  adding  that  he  '  placed  himself 
entirely  at  our  disposition.'  I  found  it  difficult  to  make 
a  suitable  reply.  I  do  not  know  whether  he  noticed  this 
— probably  he  put  it  down  to  my  grief — and  I  am  not 
grieved.  I  am  hard  and  cold,  and,  I  am  afraid,  resent- 
ful. All  of  which  is  wrong.  I  do  not  attempt  to  justify 
my  state  of  mind,  but  it  would  be  dishonest  to  pretend, 
even  to  myself,  about  it. 

"To  return  to  Mr.  Savage.  He  speaks  English 
fluently,  but  employs  words  and  frames  his  sentences 
6  75 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

in  a  peculiar  manner.  This  helps  to  give  vivacity  and 
point  to  all  which  he  says,  but  it  might  also  give  rise  to 
misunderstandings.  I  trust  it  will  not  do  so  when  he 
and  Mr.  Challoner  and  Andrew  Merriman  discuss  busi- 
ness. Smallbridge  valets  him,  not  Edwin.  I  was  un- 
certain whether  Smallbridge  would  like  to  do  so,  but  he 
said  he  preferred  it.  I  think  Mr.  Savage  has  made  a 
good  impression  upon  the  servants.  I  am  glad  of  this. 
He  is  certainly  very  courteous  to  them.  After  Margaret 
and  I  came  up-stairs,  the  first  evening  he  was  here,  she 
remarked  that  he  was  very  handsome.  She  has  re- 
peated this  frequently  since.  I  suppose  it  is  true.  Mar- 
garet is  always  very  much  occupied  about  personal  ap- 
pearance. Mr.  Savage  is,  undoubtedly,  very  kind,  and 
seems  most  anxious  to  save  us  trouble  and  take  care  of  us. 
Margaret  evidently  likes  this.  I  am  unaccustomed  to 
being  taken  care  of.  I  find  it  embarrassing.  It  adds  to 
my  nervousness. 

"I  feel  dissatisfied  with  myself,  and  anxious  lest  I 
should  not  behave  with  the  dignity  which  my  position, 
as  head  of  the  household,  demands;  but  I  am  tired  and 
so  many  new  duties  and  new  ideas  crowd  in  on  me.  I 
seem  to  have  lost  my  identity.  Ever  since  I  can  re- 
member, papa  has  occupied  the  central  place  in  my 
thoughts  and  plans.  His  will  and  wishes  supplied  the 
pivot  on  which  all  our  lives  turned,  and  I  cannot  ac- 
custom myself  to  the  absence  of  his  authority.  I  am 
pursued  by  a  fear  that  I  am  forgetting  some  order  of 
his,  or  neglecting  some  duty  toward  him,  for  which  omis- 
sion I  shall  presently  be  called  to  account.  He  repre- 
sented Fate,  Nemesis  to  me.  As  I  see  now,  I  had  never 
questioned  but  that  his  power,  or  right  to  use  that  power, 
was  absolute.  Even  through  all  the  trouble  about  poor 
Bibby,  though  I  protested  against  his  action,  I  never 
doubted  his  right  to  act  as  he  saw  fit.  Now  I  cannot  help 
reasoning  about  our  relation  to  him,  and  asking  myself 
whether — in  the  general  scheme  of  things — it  can  be 

76 


ADRIAN   SAVAGE 

intended  that  one  human  being  should  exercise  such 
complete  and  arbitrary  control  over  the  minds  and  con- 
sciences of  others.  I  know  that  I  was  greatly  his  inferior 
in  ability  and  knowledge,  let  alone  that  I  am  a  woman 
and  that,  as  his  daughter,  I  owed  him  obedience.  Still 
I  cannot  help  feeling  that  I  may  have  been  rendered  un- 
necessarily stupid  and  diffident  through  subjection  to 
him.  Something  which  Mr.  Savage  said  to-day  at  lunch- 
eon about  Individualism — though  I  do  not  think  he  meant 
it  to  apply  to  papa — suggested  to  me  that  there  are  other 
forms  of  cannibalism  besides  that  practised  by  the  de- 
graded savages  who  cook  and  eat  the  dead  bodies  of  their 
captives.  In  civilized  communities  a  more  subtle,  but 
more  cruel,  kind  of  cannibalism  is  neither  impossible  nor 
infrequent — a  feeding  upon  the  intelligence,  the  ener- 
gies and  personality  of  those  about  you,  which,  though 
it  does  not  actually  kill,  leaves  its  victims  sterile  and 
helpless.  I  suppose  this  idea  would  be  called  morbid, 
and  should  not  be  encouraged.  But  my  will  is  weak 
just  now,  and  I  cannot  put  it  away  from  me.  I  am 
haunted  by  remembrance  of  the  classic  legend  of  Saturn 
devouring  his  own  children.  It  is  monstrous  and  shock- 
ing, yet  it  does  haunt  me.  If  papa  had  been  less  stern 
and  exacting  with  Bibby,  the  latter  might  not  have  fallen 
into  bad  habits,  or,  at  all  events,  might  have  had  strength 
to  recover  from  them.  But  papa's  dominating  person- 
ality made  him  hopeless  and  helpless,  depriving  him  of 
self-respect  and  initiative.  With  me  it  has  been  the 
same,  though  in  a  lesser  degree;  and  I  am  aware  of 
this,  especially  when  talking  to  Mr.  Savage.  Then  I 
feel  how  dull  I  am,  like  some  blighted,  half-dead  thing 
incapable  of  self-expression  and  spontaneity.  And  I 
cannot  help  knowing  that  he  perceives  this  and  pities 
me — not  merely  on  account  of  our  present  trouble,  but 
for  something  inalienably  wanting  in  myself.  This  fills 
me  with  resentment  toward  the  past,  as  though,  by 
my   education   and   home   circumstances,    I   had   been 

77 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

wronged  and  deprived  of  a  power  of  happiness  which 
was  my  natural  right.  Our  lives  were  devoured — 
mamma's,  Bibby's,  mine — by  papa's  love  of  power  and 
pursuit  of  self -exaltation.  Only  Margaret,  in  virtue 
of  her  slighter  nature,  escaped.  It  was  so.  I  see  it 
clearly.  But  I  must  not  dwell  on  this.  I  have  said  it 
once  now.  I  must  let  that  suffice.  To  enlarge  upon  it 
is  useless  and  would  further  embitter  me. 

"To  go  back  to  every-day  matters.  I  asked  Mr. 
Challoner  to  dine  the  night  before  last,  so  that  he  and 
Mr.  Savage  might  make  further  acquaintance.  I  am 
afraid  Mr.  Savage  found  it  a  tedious  dinner,  after  the 
brilliant  society  he  has  been  accustomed  to  in  Paris.  I 
know  I  have  little  conversation,  and  Margaret,  though 
she  looked  unusually  animated,  never  really  has  very 
much  to  say.  Mr.  Challoner  did  not  show  to  advantage. 
He  is  not  at  his  ease  with  Mr.  Savage.  He  is  heavy  and 
crude  in  speech  and  in  appearance  beside  him.  I  thought 
he  showed  bad  taste  in  his  remarks  about  foreigners  and 
his  insistence  on  the  superiority  of  everything  English. 
I  do  not  think  Margaret  remarked  this,  but  it  made  me 
hot  and  nervous.  Mr.  Savage  behaved  with  great 
courtesy,  for  which  I  was  grateful  to  him.  I  am  afraid  I 
was  a  poor  hostess,  but  we  have  entertained  so  little 
since  we  left  Highdene,  and  then  papa  always  led  the 
conversation.  We  were  merely  listeners.  The  cooking 
was  satisfactory  with  the  exception  of  the  cheese  souffli, 
the  top  of  which  was  slightly  burnt.  I  spoke  to  Ros- 
siter  about  it  this  morning  and  begged  her  to  be  more 
careful  in  future. 

"  A  young  woman  came  from  Grays'  yesterday,  bring- 
ing a  profusion  of  dresses  and  millinery.  Margaret 
seemed  amused  and  interested,  trying  everything  on, 
asking  the  young  woman's  advice  and  talking  freely  with 
her.  I  tried  to  be  interested,  too,  but  I  did  not  find  it 
easy.  The  styles  seemed  to  me  exaggerated  and  showy, 
and  the  prices  exorbitant.     I   should  prefer  what  is 

78 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

simpler  for  such  deep  mourning,  but  Margaret  did  not 
agree  with  me.  It  would  not  do  for  us  to  be  differently 
dressed,  and  when  I  suggested  modifications  the  young 
woman,  supported  by  Margaret,  overruled  me.  Mar- 
garet is  fond  of  elaborate  styles,  and  the  young  woman 
said  that  a  good  deal  of  fullness  and  trimming  was  neces- 
sary for  me  as  I  have  so  little  figure.  It  was  foolish  to 
attach  importance  to  the  remarks  of  a  person  in  her 
position,  yet  what  she  said  hurt  me.  She  admired 
Margaret's  figure,  or  affected  to  do  so,  and  paid  her  a 
number  of  compliments.  I  looked  at  myself  in  the  long 
glass  in  my  room  last  night,  after  Margaret  left  me,  and 
I  see  that  I  am  very  thin.  My  cheeks  have  fallen  in  and 
there  are  lines  across  my  forehead  and  at  the  corners  of 
my  mouth.  '  My  face  can  give  no  pleasure  to  those  who 
see  it — the  features  are  not  good,  and  the  expression  is 
anxious.  I  look  several  years  older  than  Margaret.  I 
do  not  know  why  I  should  mind  this.  Long  ago  I  ac- 
cepted the  fact  that  I  was  not  pretty.  But  last  night  I 
was  depressed  by  the  realization  of  it.  For  the  first  time 
since  papa's  death  I  felt  inclined  to  cry.  When  Isher- 
wood  came  to  undress  me  I  made  an  excuse  and  sent  her 
away.  I  did  not  want  her  to  see  me  cry.  I  feared  she 
might  ask  questions;  and  I  had  no  reason  for  crying — 
at  least  no  fresh  reason,  none  certainly  that  I  could 
explain  to  Isherwood.  I  am  ashamed,  remembering  my 
state  of  mind  last  night.  I  could  not  write,  neither 
could  I  sleep.  I  sat  for  a  long  while  in  front  of  the  glass, 
looking  at  myself  and  crying.  I  seemed  rarely  to  have 
seen  a  less  pleasing  woman.  I  have  always  valued  in- 
tellect and  talent  more  highly  than  beauty,  but  last  night 
I  doubted.  My  strongest  convictions  seemed  to  be 
slipping  away  from  me.  I  suppose  this  is  partly  the 
result  of  physical  strain.  I  must  try  not  to  give  way 
thus  to  useless  emotion. 

"Mrs.  Paull  and  the  Woodfords  called  yesterday  to 
inquire.     So  did  Mrs.   Spencer  and  Marion  Chase.     I 

79 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

was  surprised  at  Mrs.  Spencer  calling.  We  have  met  her 
at  garden-parties  and  at-homes,  but  we  have  never 
exchanged  visits.  No  doubt  her  intention  in  calling  was 
kind,  but  I  should  not  care  to  be  intimate  with  her. 
Neither  she  nor  her  sister  appear  to  me  very  ladylike. 
I  hope  Margaret  will  not  want  to  make  friends  with  her 
now.  She  strikes  me  as  a  frivolous  person,  whose  in- 
fluence might  be  the  reverse  of  desirable.  Margaret  saw 
Marion,  saying  she  wished  to  consult  her  about  some 
details  of  our  mourning.  I  did  not  see  her.  She  and 
Margaret  spent  more  than  an  hour  together  in  the  blue 
sitting-room.  The  Pottingers  and  Mrs.  Norbiton  sent 
around  cards  of  inquiry  by  a  servant  to-day.  I  think 
every  one  wishes  to  be  kind.  Papa  was  very  much  re- 
spected, though  perhaps  he  was  not  liked.  He  was  more 
highly  educated  and  more  intellectual  than  any  one  here, 
and  that  helped  to  make  him  unpopular.  His  conver- 
sation and  manner  tended  to  make  others  aware  of  their 
mental  inferiority,  which  they  resented.  This  was  only 
natural,  yet  it  increased  our  isolation. 

"Colonel  Rentoul  Haig  called  on  the  day  of  papa's 
death.  He  has  written  since,  very  civilly,  asking  if  he  can 
be  of  any  help  to  us.  He  appears  anxious  to  make  Mr. 
Savage's  acquaintance,  but  I  do  not  want  to  ask  any  one 
here  until  after  the  funeral.  Colonel  Haig  assumes  the 
tone  of  a  near  relation.  This  pleased  Margaret,  and  she 
is  annoyed  at  my  unwillingness  to  invite  him  until  after 
the  funeral.  I  think  she  is  flattered  by  his  expression 
of  interest  in  our  affairs. 

"  I  am  worried  about  Margaret.  Mr.  Challoner  is  here 
constantly,  and  I  cannot  help  observing  how  much  at- 
tention he  pays  her.  He  refers  to  her  on  every  occasion 
and  insists  upon  asking  her  opinion.  It  is  almost  as 
though  he  placed  her  and  himself  in  opposition  to  Mr. 
Savage  and  me;  this  causes  delays  in  business,  and  un- 
necessary discussions  which  are  very  tiresome.  His  tone 
in  speaking  of  or  to  Margaret  is  protective,  as  though 

80 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

he  thought  she  was  not  being  well  treated.  Perhaps  I 
am  unjust  toward  him,  but  he  and  Margaret  are  so 
frequently  together.  He  asks  for  her  and  goes  up  to 
the  blue  sitting-room  to  see  her.  I  am  sure  Mr.  Savage 
observes  this .  I  feel  very  anxious  lest  any  wrong  impres- 
sion should  gain  ground  among  the  servants  or  others. 
I  dread  anything  approaching  gossip  just  now.  Since 
we  left  Highdene  we  have  always  kept  ourselves  free  of 
that.  Ever  since  we  came  here  people  have  known 
little  or  nothing  of  our  doings  and  affairs,  and  it  would 
humiliate  me  that  they  should  be  canvassed  now.  I 
wish  Margaret  would  be  more  careful  of  appearances. 
Then,  too,  although  I  do  not  like  her,  it  is  our  duty  to 
consider  Mrs.  Spencer.  Her  name  has  been  so  freely 
associated  with  that  of  Mr.  Challoner.  Every  one  has 
taken  it  for  granted  they  will  eventually  marry.  I 
ought  to  remind  Margaret  of  this,  since  she  seems  to 
ignore  it,  and  I  have  not  the  moral  courage  to  do  so.  I 
am  afraid  of  her  tears  and  reproaches.  When  the 
funeral  is  over,  Mr.  Challoner  will  have  less  excuse  for 
coming  so  often.  I  think  I  will  wait.  Things  may 
arrange  themselves,  and  I  may  be  spared  the  un- 
pleasantness of  speaking. 

"Something  happened  this  evening  which  threw  me 
into  a  strange  excitement.  I  hardly  know  whether  to 
set  it  down  or  not.  I  thought  the  impression  would  pass 
away,  but  I  have  been  writing  for  more  than  an  hour  and 
it  is  still  strongly  upon  me.  My  state  of  mind  is  exag- 
gerated. Perhaps  if  I  set  it  down  I  shall  become  more 
composed.  When  I  bade  Mr.  Savage  good-night  in  the 
hall — Margaret  had  gone  on  and  was  half-way  up-stairs, 
she  was  not  in  a  good  temper — he  spoke  kindly  about 
the  responsibilities  which  have  fallen  upon  me,  and  the 
amount  I  have  had  to  do  lately.  He  said  he  admired  my 
business  capacity  and  my  high  sense  of  duty.  He  ad- 
dressed me  as  'my  dear  cousin,'  and  kissed  my  right 
hand.     This  surprised  and  affected  me.     No  one  ever 

81 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE     ' 

kissed  my  hand  before.  The  tones  of  his  voice  are  very 
varied.  They  caused  me  unexpected  emotion.  All  was 
said  and  done  very  lightly  and  gracefully,  almost  play- 
fully, but  I  cannot  forget  it.  When  I  came  up-stairs  I 
locked  the  door  of  my  room,  and  walked  up  and  down  in 
the  firelight,  looking  at  my  hand,  for  a  long  while  before 
I  recovered  sufficient  self-control  to  light  the  candles  and 
sit  down  and  write.  I  have  a  strange  feeling  toward  my 
own  hand.  It  seems  to  have  gained  an  intrinsic  beauty 
and  value,  as  of  something  quite  apart  from  myself.  I 
look  at  it  with  a  sense  of  admiration.  I  enjoy  touching 
it  with  my  other  hand.  And  yet  I  am  doubtful  whether 
to  write  this  down.  Only  these  sensations  are  so  new  to 
me  that,  when  they  are  past,  I  shall  be  glad,  I  think,  to 
have  some  record  of  them.  I  wrote  about  other  things 
first,  to-night,  to  test  whether  the  impression  was  fugitive 
or  not.  It  is  still  with  me,  though  I  am  quite  composed 
now.  I  am  composed,  but  I  still  look  at  my  hand  with 
emotion.  I  will  not  write  any  more.  I  think  I  shall 
sleep  to-night." 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN    WHICH     ADRIAN    HELPS    TO    THROW    EARTH    INTO     AN 
OPEN    GRAVE 

ADRIAN  SAVAGE,  meanwhile,  his  native  buoy- 
i  ancy  of  spirit  notwithstanding,  became  increasingly 
sensible  of  the  depressing  moral  atmosphere  surround- 
ing him.  He  was  impatient  of  it.  For  did  they  not 
really  take  things  rather  ridiculously  hard,  these  ex- 
cellent English  people?  Had  they  no  sense  of  propor- 
tion? Had  they  no  power  of  averaging,  no  little  con- 
solations of  good-tempered  philosophy?  He  went  so 
far,  in  moments  of  levity,  as  to  accuse  le  bon  Dieu  of 
reprehensible  squandering  by  thus  bestowing  the  emi- 
nently good  gift  of  life  upon  persons  so  deplorably 
incapable  of  profiting  by  it.  To  him  they  appeared 
thankless,  cowardly,  and  quite  unpardonably  clumsy  in 
their  handling  of  opportunity.  Moreover,  while  curi- 
ously clannish,  ready  on  the  slightest  provocation  to 
stand  back  to  back  against  the  world,  they  waged 
internecine  war,  being  permanently  supicious  of,  and 
unamiable  toward,  one  another.  If  this  represented  a 
fair  sample  of  the  much-vaunted  English  home  and  the 
English  character — well,  for  his  part,  Adrian  was  of 
opinion  they  did  these  things  quite  as  well,  if  not  a  great 
deal  better,  in  France! 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  elevated  his  black  eye- 
brows, stroked  his  neat  beard,  trying  at  once  to  over- 
come his  sense  of  depression  and  stifle  his  sense  of 
humor.  The  atmosphere  would,  he  told  himself,  no 
doubt  become  more  exhilarating  when  poor  Montagu 

83 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Smyrthwaite's  body  had  been  removed  from  that  rather 
terrible  best  bedroom — apparently  "turned  up,"  as  the 
maids  have  it,  for  spring  cleaning — and  finally  consigned 
to  the  tomb.  Never  had  he  seen  a  dead  fellow-creature 
treated  with  such  meager  tribute,  either  in  language  or 
symbol,  of  human  pity  or  eternal  hope!  It  shocked  his 
sensibility  that  the  corpse  should  lie  there,  locked  away 
by  itself  in  a  cold,  dismal  twilight  of  drawn  blinds, 
without  any  orderly  setting-out  of  the  death-chamber, 
without  watchers,  or  prayer  offered,  or  lighted  candles, 
or  flowers,  or  other  suggestion  either  of  tenderness  or  of 
religious  obligation.  Observances  of  this  sort,  he  was 
given  to  understand  by  Joseph  Challoner,  were  dis- 
credited in  highly  intellectual  circles,  such  as  that  in 
which  the  Smyrthwaites  moved,  as  savoring  of  anti- 
quated and  unscientific  superstitions.  The  result,  to 
Adrian's  thinking,  presented  an  effect  at  once  so  ab- 
jectly domestic,  and  so  miserably  deficient  in  any  appre- 
ciation of  the  eternal  mystery  of  human  fate,  that  the 
crudest  death-rites  of  the  most  degraded  aborigines  would 
have  been  preferable. 

And  then,  by  a  singular  inversion  of  sentiment,  it 
was  held  necessary  as  a  testimony  of  respect  to  keep  the 
poor,  disagreeable  old  gentleman's  body  waiting  such  a 
quite  inordinately  long  time  for  interment!  During  a, 
to  Adrian,  positively  endless  week  did  it  remain  there, 
amid  a  doleful  array  of  dusting-sheets  and  disinfectants ! 
So  that,  what  with  the  dark,  snow-patched  fir  woods 
without,  and  the  dark,  neutral-tinted  house  within ;  what 
with  conventionally  hushed  footsteps  and  lowered  voices, 
plus  an  all-pervasive  odor  of  iodiform  tainting  the  close, 
heated  air,  the  young  man  found  the  present  among 
quite  the  most  trying  and  distasteful  of  all  his  personal 
experiences. 

Yet,  as  the  interminable  days  went  by — while  Joseph 
Challoner,  jealous  alike  of  his  own  position  and  of  the 
newcomer's   breeding   and    ability,  alternately  bluffed, 

84 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

snarled  and  flattered,  and  pompous,  little  Colonel  Haig 
fell  headlong  from  attempted  patronage  to  a  certain 
fulsomeness  of  conciliation — against  this  dismal  back- 
ground the  figure  of  Joanna  Smyrthwaite  came  to  stand 
out,  to  Adrian's  seeing,  with  an  intensity  of  moral  effort 
and  sustained  determination  of  duty  both  impressive  and 
admirable.  Beneath  the  bloodless  surface,  behind  the 
anxious,  unlovely  countenance  and  coldly  nervous  man- 
ner, he  began  to  divine  a  remarkable  character.  He 
had  been  mistaken  in  calling  her  a  shadow.  She  was  a 
distinct  entity,  but  she  was  also,  to  him,  quite  arrest- 
ingly  unattractive.  And,  just  on  that  account,  the 
chivalry  both  of  the  man  and  the  artist  grew  alert  to  be 
very  gentle  to  her,  to  omit  no  smallest  offering  of  friendli- 
ness or  courtesy.  The  very  reason  and  purpose  of 
woman's  existence  being  charm  and  beauty — his  thought 
turned  with  a  great  yearning  to  remembrance  of  a  cer- 
tain enigmatic  fair  lady,  the  windows  of  whose  rose-red 
and  canvas-colored  drawing-room  overlooked  the  heart 
of  Paris  from  above  the  Quat  Malaquais — it  was  pitiful 
in  the  extreme  to  see  any  woman  thus  disfranchised. 

The  inherent  tragedy  of  that  disfranchisement  was 
brought  home  to  him,  with  peculiar  force,  on  the  evening 
following  Montagu  Smyrthwaite's  funeral.  For  eventu- 
ally, almost  to  Adrian's  surprise,  the  poor  lonely  corpse 
really  did  get  itself  buried !  Then,  at  the  Tower  House, 
the  blinds  were  drawn  up,  and  the  mourners,  local  and 
official,  returning  thither,  discarding  the  appointed 
countenance  assumed  as  due  to  the  mournful  character 
of  the  rites  lately  accomplished  and  resuming  that 
common  to  them  under  ordinary  conditions,  prepared 
almost  jovially  to  do  justice  to  an  excellent  luncheon. 
The  Miss  Smyrthwaites  excused  themselves  from  at- 
tendance, no  other  ladies  being  there,  so  it  fell  to  Adrian's 
lot  to  preside  at  the  banquet.  He  was  amused  to  note 
the  fact  that  they  had  left  all  which  was  mortal  of  the 
late  owner  of  the  house  in  the  new  West  Stourmouth 

85 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

cemetery — which,  with  its  pale  monuments,  roads  and 
pathways,  showed  as  a  gigantic  scar  upon  the  face  of  the 
dusky  moorland — in  no  perceptible  degree  impaired  the 
healthy  appetite  of  any  member  of  the  company.  To 
eat  offers  agreeably  convincing  testimony  that  one  is 
as  yet  well  within  the  pale  of  the  living;  and  none  of  the 
eighteen  or  twenty  gentlemen  present,  whatever  their 
diversities  of  profession  or  of  social  standing,  entertained 
the  faintest  desire  to  follow  Montagu  Smyrthwaite — 
their  neighbor,  kinsman,  patron,  or  employer — to  the 
grave  in  any  sense  save  a  strictly  complimentary  one. 
That  final  civility  being  now  duly  paid  in  respect  of  him, 
it  was  in  the  spirit  of  those  who  receive  well-earned  re- 
ward for  well-performed  labor  that  they  sat  down  to 
feed. 

In  Adrian,  both  the  Latin  and  the  Catholic  were  still 
somewhat  in  revolt  against  this  scant  tenderness  shown 
toward  death.  The  whole  matter  from  start  to  finish 
had  been,  as  he  reflected,  notably  of  the  earth-to-earth 
order.  The  alacrity,  displayed  by  the  assistants,  in  the 
direction  of  food  and  drink,  was  of  the  earth  earthy,  too. 
It,  however,  had  at  least  the  merit  of  being  very  human. 
Therefore,  to  him,  it  came  as  a  rather  humorous  relief. 
Since  his  childhood  his  visits  to  England  had  been  in- 
frequent. With  London  and  London  society  he  was  fairly 
well  acquainted,  but  of  provincial  life  and  its  social  condi- 
tions he  knew  next  to  nothing.  It  followed  that,  in  their 
racial  and  psychological  aspects,  the  members  of  the  pres- 
ent company  were  interesting  to  him.  He  tried  to  forget 
the  poor,  unloved  corpse  lying  beneath  the  rattling  snow- 
sodden  gravel  of  the  moorland  and  absorb  himself  in  ob- 
servation of  the  men  seated  on  either  side  the  dinner-table ; 
to  where,  at  the  opposite  end  of  it,  the  hard-featured, 
taciturn,  sagacious,  Yorkshire  manufacturer,  Andrew 
Merriman,  manager  and  part  proprietor  of  the  Priestly 
woolen  mills,  faced  him.  This  man  had  not  taken  off 
the  appointed  countenance,  for  the  very  good  reason 

86 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

that  he  had  never  put  it  on,  his  nature  being  of  a  type 
which  disdains  conventional  manifestations,  either  of 
joy  or  woe.  Throughout  the  day,  in  this  as  in  other 
particulars,  Merriman's  personality  had  struck  Adrian 
as  distinct,  standing  away  from  the  rest  of  the  company, 
silently  declaring  itself  as  possessed  of  unusual  vigor 
and  independence.  He  tried  to  enter  into  conversation, 
but  invariably  Joseph  Challoner  contrived  to  intervene; 
and  it  was  not  till  evening,  shortly  before  Merriman  and 
the  rest  of  the  Yorkshire  contingent  were  due  to  depart 
to  Stourmouth  on  their  return  journey  by  the  night  mail 
to  Leeds,  that  he  succeeded  in  getting  private  speech  of 
him. 

Then,  after  some  brief  mention  of  certain  business 
details,  Merriman  said  to  him,  gruffly,  and  as  though 
grudgingly: 

"  I  own  I  am  more  satisfied  now  I  have  met  you,  Mr. 
Savage.  I  did  not  much  care  about  your  appointment 
as  executor.  But  I  might  have  trusted  Mr.  Smyrth- 
waite's  judgment.  I  have  seldom  known  him  wrong  in 
his  estimate  of  a  man." 

"You  wish  me  to  understand  that  you  believe  me  to 
be  quite  fairly  honest  and  competent?"  Adrian  returned, 
in  mingled  annoyance  and  pleasure.  The  intention  was 
complimentary,  but  the  address  so  singularly  blunt!  " I 
venture  to  agree  with  you,  my  dear  sir.  Without  vanity, 
I  have  reason  to  believe  I  really  am  both." 

"So  much  the  better,"  Merriman  answered,  sardonic- 
ally. "I  have  no  wish  to  offend  you.  But  an  uncom- 
mon amount  of  property,  in  which  I  am  interested,  is 
changing  hands;  and  honest,  trustworthy  persons  are 
pretty  scarce."  He  glanced  from  under  penthouse  eye- 
brows across  the  room  to  where  Challoner,  shifting  his. 
weight  uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  dancing-bear 
fashion,  stood  talking  to  Colonel  Haig.  "  At  least  in  my 
experience  they  are,  Mr.  Savage.  When  a  family  is  dying 
out  you  generally  find  the  males  are  debilitated  speci- 

87 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

mens  and  the  females  the  strongest.  In  this  family,  if 
Miss  Smyrthwaite  had  been  born  a  boy  it  would  have 
been  better  for  the  name  and  for  the  business.  Only, 
then,  you  and  I  shouldn't  have  met  here  to-day,  because 
Mr.  Smyrthwaite  would  never  have  left  Highdene,  and  I 
should  never  have  been  manager  at  the  mills." 

"Which  would  have  been  a  misfortune — for  me,  in  any 
case,"  Adrian  returned,  suavely. 

"Maybe,"  the  other  said.  "But  I  can  tell  you 
Joanna  Smyrthwaite's  all  right.  She  has  sound  com- 
mercial instincts  if  she's  allowed  to  use  them.  It  is  an 
all-fired  pity  she's  a  woman." 

An  idea  occurred  to  Adrian. 

"She  should  have  married,"  he  said.  This  bluntness 
of  statement  became  lamentably  infectious!  "Every 
woman  should  marry.  Then  her  abilities  find  their 
natural  expression  and  development." 

"  Quite  right,  sir.  And  it  is  on  the  cards,  I  am  think- 
ing, Joanna  would  have  married  if  a  man  had  not  been 
too  much  afraid  of  her  father  to  ask  her.  Mind,"  he 
added,  "I  have  no  quarrel  with  our  late  head.  My 
father  was  a  national  schoolmaster.  My  grandfather 
was  a  mill-hand.  I  should  not  be  where  I  am  but  for 
Mr.  Smyrthwaite.  He  fancied  my  looks  when  I  was 
quite  a  little  nipper,  picked  me  out  and  gave  me  my 
start.  And  I'm  not  boasting,  any  more  than  you  were 
just  now,  if  I  say  I  know  he  never  had  reason  to  regret 
doing  that." 

The  speaker  straightened  up  his  heavy  figure,  looking 
Adrian  steadily  in  the  eyes. 

"  I  told  you  he  was  a  sure  judge  of  men.  But  women, 
except  to  bring  him  children,  and  mind  his  house,  and 
put  up  with  his  tempers,  and  fetch  and  carry  for  him, 
didn't  enter  into  his  calculations  at  all.  He  was  a  bit 
of  a  Grand  Turk  was  Mr.  Smyrthwaite.  And  Joanna, 
from  quite  a  little  mite,  made  herself  useful  as  his  amanu- 
ensis and  reader  and  so  on.     He  looked  upon  her  as  his 

88 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

private  property,  and  kept  her  busy,  I  promise  you;  so 
that  the  man  who  wanted  to  take  her  away  from  him 
didn't  have  a  fighting  chance." 

"But  now  the  Grand  Turk  is  finally  removed,"  Adrian 
declared.     "Haven't  we  just  concluded  all  that ?' ' 

"  And  now  a  man  is  afraid  of  her  money,  I'm  thinking," 
the  big  Yorkshireman  returned,  slowly,  a  grim  smile  pull- 
at  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  "Joanna  was  always  the 
plain  one  of  the  two  girls.  And  she  has  aged  lately. 
You  can't  seem  to  picture  her  with  a  healthy  baby  on  her 
lap.  And  so,  nobody  would  believe — the  man,  though  he 
wished  it  ever  so,  would  hardly  believe  himself — it  was 
the  woman  he  wanted,  the  woman  he  was  after,  and  not 
just  her  wealth." 

He  stood  silent  a  moment,  his  jaw  set,  and  then  held 
out  a  large,  hard,  but  not  unkindly  hand  to  Adrian. 

"I  reckon  our  time's  about  up,"  he  said.  "Write  or 
wire  me  to  come  if  I  am  needed,  Mr.  Savage.  And, 
when  you  leave,  I  should  be  obliged  if  you'll  remind 
Joanna  I'm  always  at  her  service.  I  shall  look  after  the 
girls'  interest  at  the  mills  right  enough,  but  I  can  get 
away  down  here  for  twenty-four  hours  almost  any  time 
at  a  push.  Good-day  to  you,  sir.  I  am  glad  we've  met. 
Now  I  must  round  up  my  lads  and  take  'em  back  home 
to  work." 

This  conversation,  in  its  crude  sincerity  of  language 
and  statement,  remained  by  Adrian,  and  was  still  pres- 
ent to  his  mind  next  morning  when  he  rose.  Early  in  his 
stay  at  the  Tower  House  he  had  petitioned  Smallbridge 
to  bring  him  rolls  and  coffee  when  calling  him,  since  a 
solid  breakfast  at  nine,  followed  by  a  solid  luncheon  at 
one-thirty,  proved  too  serious  an  undertaking  for  the 
comfort  of  the  Latin  stomach.  By  the  above  arrange- 
ment he  secured  two  or  three  hours  to  himself  either 
for  writing  or  for  exercise.  This  morning  he  went  out 
soon  after  eight  and  walked  down  the  wide  avenue,  past 
large,  jealously  secluded  villas,  each  standing  in  its  acre 

89 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

or  half  acre  of  thickly  planted  grounds,  to  where  the 
mouth  of  the  long,  dark  wooded  valley  opens  between 
striated  gray  and  orange  sand-cliffs,  as  through  a  giant 
gateway,  upon  the  sea.  Thin,  primrose-yellow  sunlight 
glinted  on  the  backs  of  the  steel-blue  waves.  A  great 
flight  of  gulls,  driven  inshore  by  stress  of  weather, 
swept,  and  dropped,  and  lifted  again,  with  wild,  yelping 
laughter,  above  the  flowing  tide.  Fringing  the  cliff  edge 
the  purple  boles,  red  trunks,  and  black,  ragged  heads  of 
a  line  of  wind-tormented  Scotch  firs,  detached  them- 
selves, from  foot  to  crown,  against  the  colorless  winter 
sky. 

The  thirty  or  forty  yards  of  level  sand,  stretching  from 
the  turn  of  the  road  in  the  valley  bottom  to  the  dark 
windrows  of  sea-wrack  marking  the  tide-line,  were 
pocketed  by  footsteps.  But,  at  this  hour,  the  place  was 
wholly  deserted,  it  being  too  early  in  the  day,  and  too 
early  in  the  season,  for  invasion  by  any  advance  guard 
of  the  mighty  army  of  tourists  and  trippers  which  infests 
the  coast  from  Marychurch  and  Stourmouth,  westward 
to  Barryport,  during  the  summer  and  autumn  months. 
Adrian  found  himself  solitary,  in  a  silent  wilderness,  save 
for  the  murmur  of  the  pines,  the  plunge  and  hush  of  the 
waves,  and  harsh  laughter  of  the  strong-winged  gulls. 
From  where  he  stood,  looking  inland,  the  surface  of  the 
vast,  somber  amphitheater  of  blue-black  fir  forest,  varie- 
gated here  and  there  by  the  purple-brown  of  a  grove  of 
bare,  deciduous  trees,  or  the  pallor  of  a  snow-dusted  space 
of  tussock-grass  and  heather,  was  unbroken  by  house- 
roof  or  other  sign  of  human  habitation.  Looking  seaward 
no  shipping  was  visible.  To  Adrian  the  scene  appeared 
arrestingly  northern  in  character,  the  spirit  of  it  ques- 
tioning, introspective,  coldly  complex,  yet  primitive  and 
elfin,  reminding  him  of  Grieg's  Occasional  Music  to  the 
haunting  parable  -  poem  of  Peer  Gynt.  Then,  as  he 
paced  the  harder  sand  to  the  seaward  side  of  the  tide- 
mark,  the  chill  breeze  pushing  against  him  and  the  keen 

90 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

smell  of  the  brine  in  his  nostrils,  his  thought  carried 
back  vividly  to  his  conversation  of  last  night  with 
Andrew  Merriman. 

For,  now  that  he  came  to  think  of  it,  might  not  Joanna, 
the  main  subject  of  that  conversation,  in  all  her  feminine 
leanness  and  overstrained  mentality,  have  stepped 
straight  out  of  one  of  those  plays  of  Ibsen's  which,  here- 
tofore, had  so  perplexed  him  by  their  distance  from  any 
moral  and  racial  conditions  with  which  he  was  familiar  ? 
Northern,  joyless,  uncertain  in  faith,  burdened  by 
scruples,  prey  to  a  misplaced  intellectualism,  yet  clear- 
headed and  able  in  practical  matters,  could  not  her 
prototype  be  found  again  and  again  in  the  Norwegian 
playwright's  penetrating  and  disheartening  pages  ?  And, 
if  it  came  to  that,  in  the  relentless  common-sense  of  the 
big  Yorkshireman's  cruelly  sagacious  estimate  of  his  own 
attitude  toward  her  was  there  not  an  Ibsenish  element, 
too?  For  that  Andrew  Merriman  was,  himself,  "the 
man"  of  whom  he  had  spoken,  Adrian  entertained  no 
doubt. 

So  he  paced  the  sand,  absorbed  in  analysis  and  in 
apprehension,  while  ripples  of  spent  waves  slipped,  in 
foam-outlined  curves,  near  and  nearer  to  his  feet.  It 
seemed  to  him  he  touched  something  new  here  in 
human  tendencies  and  human  development;  something 
which,  in  the  coming  social  order,  might  very  widely 
obtain,  especially  among  Protestant  English-speaking 
peoples. — A  democratic,  scientific,  unsparing  self-knowl- 
edge, physical  and  mental,  on  the  one  hand,  and  a  narrow, 
sectarian,  self-sufficiency,  on  the  other;  a  morbidly  cold- 
blooded acknowledgment  of  fact  and  application  of 
means  to  ends,  in  which  neither  poetry  nor  religion  had 
any  determining  part.  The  artist  in  him  protested 
hotly.  For  really  a  world  so  ordered  did  not  look 
enticing  in  the  very  least ! 

Then,  his  thought  fixing  itself  again  exclusively  on 
Joanna,  played  around  the  everlastingly  baffling  problem 

7  91 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

of  woman's  mind,  woman's  outlook,  in  itself,  divorced 
from  her  relation  to  man.  It  was  not  the  first  time  his 
imagination  had  been  held  up  by  this  problem,  nor  was 
he  conceited  enough  to  suppose  it  would  be  the  last. 
Woman  in  her  relation  to  man  was  a  stale  enough,  ob- 
vious enough,  story.  But  in  her  relation  to  her  fellow- 
woman,  in  her  relation  to  herself — had  not  this  tripped 
even  the  cleverest  novelists  and  dramatists  of  his  own 
sex  ?  Wasn't  it,  after  all,  easier  for  a  woman  rightly  to 
imagine  the  life  a  man  lives  among  men,  than  for  a  man 
to  conceive  woman's  life  with  his  own  great  self  left  out 
of  it  ?  He  feared  so,  though  the  admission  was  far  from 
flattering  to  masculine  perspicacity.  He  resented  his 
own  inability  to  negotiate  those  moral  and  emotional  lines 
of  cleavage  which  do,  so  very  actually,  divide  the  sexes. 
To  think,  for  example,  that  Joanna  Smyrthwaite  and 
Gabrielle  St.  Leger — their  radical  differences  of  circum- 
stances, endowment,  and  experience  notwithstanding — 
were  still  essentially  nearer  to  each  other,  more  capable 
of  mutual  sympathy  and  understanding  in  the  deep 
places  of  their  nature,  than  he,  with  all  his  acute  sensi- 
bility and  dramatic  insight,  could  ever  be  to  either  of 
them! 

But  there  the  young  man  stopped  and  fairly  laughed 
outright.  For  to  class  Gabrielle  St.  Leger,  the  devoutly 
worshiped  and  desired,  and  poor  Joanna  Smyrthwaite 
together,  even  in  passing,  was  a  little  too  outrageously 
far-fetched.  Here,  indeed,  the  study  of  psychology  ran 
frankly  and,  in  a  sense,  almost  profanely  mad. 

He  looked  away,  through  the  shifting  cloud  of  scream- 
ing gulls,  over  the  steel-blue  levels  of  the  Channel  toward 
far-distant  France,  and  a  strong  nostalgia  took  him  for 
the  delightful,  quick-witted  land  of  his  birth.  It  seemed 
a  thousand  years  since  he  left  Paris.  What  were  they  all 
doing  over  there,  the  dear  people  whose  friendship 
spelled  for  him  more  than  half  the  joy  of  living?  Save 
for  one  brief  note,  in  the  response  to  the  announcement  of 

92 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

his  arrival,  Madame  St.  Leger  had  given  no  sign.  And 
he,  in  face  of  his  last  interview  with  her,  wanted  to  know 
— wanted  so  very  badly  to  know.  He  wanted  to  look 
at  her.  He  wanted  to  hear  her  voice. — Whereupon  he 
turned  positively  vindictive.  Oh!  most  consoling  doc- 
trine of  purgatory! — Might  Montagu  Smyrthwaite  very 
thoroughly  suffer  the  depleting  pains  of  it  as  punishment 
for  this  fiendishly  tiresome  legacy  of  an  executorship! 
Why  couldn't  he  have  left  Adrian  free  to  pursue  his  de- 
licious love  campaign,  and  appointed  somebody  else — 
the  unpleasant,  heavy-weight  Challoner,  say,  or  the 
worldly,  feather-weight  Haig?  Either  of  them  would 
have  reveled  in  the  brief  authority  it  conferred,  while 
to  him  it  constituted  an  intolerable  waste  of  time.  He 
was  sick  to  death,  interesting  racial  and  psychological 
researches  notwithstanding,  sick  to  death  of  the  whole 
corvte. 

And  then  he  skipped  aside  with  quite  undignified 
haste,  for  an  incoming  wave  threatened  his  long-toed 
French  boots  with  total  immersion. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A    MODERN    ANTIGONE 

HIS  retina  still  holding  that  northern  elfin  landscape 
and  seascape,  his  ears  the  voices  of  the  forest  and 
of  the  wildly  yelping  gulls,  his  mind  still  working  on  the 
thought  of  that  new  moral  and  social  order  now  coming 
into  being,  his  heart  and  his  manhood  crying  out  for  the 
woman  he  loved,  Adrian — the  keen  freshness  of  the 
winter  morning  pouring  in  through  the  open  door  along 
with  him — entered  the  hall  of  the  Tower  House.  And 
down  the  broad  staircase,  over  the  thick,  sound-muffling 
carpet,  the  wan  light  streaming  in  through  the  blurred, 
leaded  glass  of  the  great  staircase  windows  falling  upon 
her  meager,  flat-bosomed,  crape-clad  figure,  yellowish- 
auburn  hair  and  strained,  anxious  countenance,  came 
the  other  woman,  the  Ibsen  woman,  concerning  whose 
nature  and  attributes  he  had  just  indulged  in  so  much 
analytic  speculation. 

Joanna  held  up  the  front  of  her  crape  dress.  Her  feet 
showed  as  she  stepped  down  the  shallow  treads.  And 
Adrian,  standing  below,  looking  up  at  her,  hat  in  hand, 
saw — though  he  didn't  in  the  least  want  to  see — that  she 
wore  black  velvet  slippers  with  square  toes  and  no  heels 
to  them,  and  that  both  her  feet  and  hands,  though  com- 
paratively small,  were  lacking  in  individuality  and  in  that 
sharpness  of  outline  which  is  the  mark  of  fineness  of 
breeding.  They  might  have  been  just  anybody's  hands 
and  feet;  and  so — he  felt  amusedly  ashamed  of  himself 
for  admitting  it — they  were  exactly  the  hands  and  feet 
one  would  expect  Joanna  Smyrthwaite  to  possess. 

94 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Taking  himself  to  task  for  this  involuntary  cruelty  of 
observation,  his  manner  the  more  persuasive  and  gallant 
because  he  felt  himself  to  blame,  the  young  man  advanced 
through  the  dull  reds  and  browns  of  the  spacious  hall 
to  the  foot  of  the  staircase. 

"Ah!  you  are  here!  Good-morning,  ch&re  cousine," 
he  said.  "  I  rose  early  and  have  already  been  out  walk- 
ing in  your  great  woods  and  down  on  the  shore.  It 
is  all  a  poem  of  the  first  days  of  creation,  before  man 
intruded  his  perplexing  presence  upon  the  earth.  I 
felt  quite  rampantly  decadent  in  this  overcivilized  twen- 
tieth-century costume,  under  obligation  to  offer  the 
humblest  apologies  to  the  hairy  mammoths  and  ptero- 
dactyls, which,  at  every  turn  of  the  road,  I  instinctively 
braced  my  courage  to  meet.  But  really  it  is  rather 
wonderful  how  'the  desert  and  the  sown'  jostle  one  an- 
other here  in  England.  The  contrasts  are  so  unexpected, 
so  violent,  so  complete!" 

Adrian  talked  on  rather  at  random,  smiling,  his  head 
thrown  back,  the  expression  of  his  handsome  face  gay 
yet  subtlely  apologetic;  the  general  effect  of  him  pleas- 
antly healthy,  self-secure,  finished,  and  on  excellently 
good  terms  both  with  fortune  and  with  himself.  And 
Joanna,  looking  down  at  him,  faltered,  stopped  in  her 
descent,  let  slip  the  folds  of  her  crape  skirt,  while  she 
laid  one  hand  hurriedly  upon  the  baluster-rail  and 
pressed  the  other  nervously  against  her  left  side  over 
her  heart. 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  "you  get  up  and  go  out  so 
early  on  our  account — I  mean  so  that  you  may  devote 
all  the  rest  of  the  day  to  us." 

"Oh  no,"  Adrian  returned,  still  smiling.  "It  is  an 
old  habit,  one  of  my  very  few  good  habits,  that  of  early 
rising.  You  see,  I  am  quite  a  busy  man  in  my  own  small 
way,  what  with  my  Review,  my  friends,  my  literary 
work — " 

"  I  realize  that,  and  so  I  am  very  much  distressed  at  the 

95 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

demands  which  we  are  making  upon  your  valuable  time. 
I  cannot  justify  or  excuse  it  to  myself.  I  do  not  think  it 
was  proper  that  papa  should  have  appointed  you  as  my 
co  -  executor  without  consulting  you  and  asking  your 
permission  first." 

She  spoke  with  a  suppressed  violence  of  feeling  which 
caused  Adrian  to  gulp  down  his  complete  agreement 
in  these  sentiments,  and  reply  in  soothing  tones: 

"But,  dear  cousin,  surely  at  this  time  of  day  it  is 
superfluous  to  vex  yourself  about  that!  Believe  me, 
you  are  too  scrupulous,  too  considerate.  I  assure  you, 
as  I  have  so  often  assured  you  before,  that  I  am  touched 
by  the  confidence  your  father  showed  me  in  thus  tem- 
porarily intrusting  not  only  his  affairs,  but  yourself  and 
your  sister,  to  my  care.  My  sole  desire  is  worthily  to 
fulfil  that  trust.  To  do  so  constitutes,  in  as  far  as  my 
time  is  concerned,  an  all-sufficient  reward.  And  then, 
after  all,"  he  added,  gaily,  "ten  days,  a  fortnight  even, 
should  I  have  to  go  north  to  Leeds  for  a  brief  visit,  will 
see  all  imperative  business  through  and  so  put  a  term 
to  our  joint  labors." 

There  he  paused,  looking  discreetly  aside  as  he  un- 
buttoned his  overcoat,  since  he  was  aware  that  the 
gladness  of  coming  freedom  might  declare  itself  with  un- 
flattering distinctness.  For  in  imagination  he  sprinted 
once  again,  three  steps  at  a  time,  up  the  three  flights  of 
stairs  to  the  top  story  of  the  tall,  gray  house  overlooking 
the  Quai  Malaquais,  while  high  expectation,  at  once  de- 
licious and  disturbing,  circulated  through  every  fiber  of 
his  being.  How  adorable  it  would  be — how  richly, 
poignantly  enchanting!  But  just  then,  though  by  no 
means  easily  open  to  hypnotic  or  mesmeric  influences,  he 
became  conscious  that  Joanna  Smyrthwaite's  eyes — 
those  tenacious,  prominent,  faded-blue  eyes,  with  red- 
rimmed  lids  to  them,  which,  to  his  seeing,  so  perpetually 
gave  away  the  inward  tempest  of  feeling  to  which  the 
compressed  lips  refused  utterance  — were  fixed  upon  him 

96 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

with  an  extraordinary  intensity  of  questioning  scrutiny. 
For  a  moment  the  young  man  felt  frankly  embarrassed, 
uncertain  how  to  comport  himself.  For  he  had  no  an- 
swer whatever  to  give  to  that  questioning  scrutiny.  He 
suddenly  grew  wary,  fearing  demand  might  create  supply 
— of  a  fraudulent  sort — courtesy  betraying  him  into  re- 
turn glances  dishonestly  sympathetic  in  character.  But, 
to  his  relief,  the  sound  of  an  opening  door,  followed  by 
that  of  two  chattering  feminine  voices — high-pitched, 
unmusical  in  tone,  one  indeed  peevish  and  complaining — 
coming  from  the  gallery  above  created  a  diversion.  He 
felt,  rather  than  saw,  Joanna  Smyrthwaite  start  and  look 
impatiently  upward.  Thus  the  awkward  minute  passed, 
resolving  itself;  and  the  situation — if  the  little  episode 
deserved  so  high-sounding  a  title — was  saved.  Adrian 
backed  away  and  slipped  off  his  overcoat,  doubling  it 
together  across  his  arm. 

Joanna,  her  expression  and  manner  agitated,  descend- 
ing the  remaining  treads  of  the  staircase  hastily,  followed 
and  stood  close  by  him. 

"That  is  Margaret,"  she  said,  in  a  hurried  undertone. 
"Marion  Chase  is  with  her  as  usual.  And  Mr.  Challoner 
comes  here  at  half-past  eleven.  It  was  his  own  proposi- 
tion. I  had  a  note  from  him  "early  this  morning.  I 
should  have  been  glad  to  put  aside  legal  business  just 
for  to-day,  but  Margaret  expressed  unwillingness  that  I 
should  refuse  to  receive  him.  There  is  something  I  feel 
I  must  explain  to  you,  Cousin  Adrian,  before  I  see  him. 
But  I  cannot  speak  of  it  before  Margaret,  still  less  before 
Marion  Chase.  Would  it  trouble  you  too  much  to  come 
into  the  library  with  me?  We  should  be  alone.  Mar- 
garet would  hardly  attempt  to  bring  Marion  in  there, 
I  should  think." 

The  young  man  assented  readily,  though  the  invitation 
was  not  very  much  to  his  taste.  Of  all  the  rooms  in  this 
finely  proportioned  yet  gloomy  house,  that  distinctly  mas- 
culine apartment,  the  library  aforesaid,  was,  to  his  think- 

97 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

nig,  the  most  depressing.  Facing  north  and  east,  its 
windows  were  darkened  by  the  rough  corrugated  trunks 
and  scraggy  lower  branches  of  a  grove  of  Weymouth 
pines,  spared  when  the  rest  of  the  site  had  been  cleared 
for  building.  These,  at  close  quarters  and  when  old, 
are  doleful  trees,  lifeless  and  unchanging  in  aspect,  telling 
of  sour  soil  and  barren,  unprofitable  spaces.  Two  sides 
of  the  room  were  lined,  to  within  a  couple  of  feet  of  the 
ceiling,  with  mahogany  bookcases,  the  contents  of  which, 
in  Adrian's  opinion,  only  too  thoroughly  harmonized  in 
spirit  with  the  doleful  grove  outside.  They  consisted  of 
ranges  of  well-bound  volumes  upon  such  juiceless  sub- 
jects as  commercial  and  municipal  law,  ethics  of  citizen- 
ship and  political  economy,  together  with  an  extensive 
collection  of  pamphlets  embodying  the  controversies  of 
the  last  fifty  years — social,  political,  ecclesiastical,  and 
religious — neatly  indexed  and  bound.  Not  only  did  the 
complete  works  of  Adam  Smith,  David  Hume,  Dugald 
Stewart,  and  the  two  Mills — elder  and  younger — decorate 
the  shelves;  but  portrait  prints  of  these  authors,  along 
with  those  of  certain  liberal  statesmen  and  Noncon- 
formist divines,  solidly  framed  and  glazed,  decorated  the 
remaining  wall  spaces.  The  carpet  and  curtains  were 
of  a  dull  brown,  patterned  in  dusky  blues  and  greens. 
A  writing-table  of  hugh  dimensions,  fitted  with  many 
drawers ;  dark  leather-covered  chairs,  various  mechanical 
devices  in  the  form  of  reading-desks  and  leg-rests,  and 
an  elaborate  adjustable  invalid  couch  constituted  the 
other  appointments  of  the  room. 

Following  Joanna's  crape  -  clad  figure  into  this  se- 
verely educational  sanctuary,  Adrian  could  not  but 
think  of  the  long  joyless  hours  she  must  have  spent  there 
reading  to  or  writing  for  that  imperious  old  gentleman, 
the  late  lamented  Montagu.  And  this  thought  softened 
his  attitude  toward  her,  reawakening  sentiments  of 
chivalrous  pity.  For,  though  rich,  highly  educated,  and 
clever,  had  not  she,  poor  girl,  every  bit  as  much  as  her 

98 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

cautious,  halting  lover,  been  denied  the  very  barest 
fighting  chance? 

"You  are  tired,  chere  cousine,"  he  said,  consolingly. 
"  Is  it  any  wonder  after  the  painful  fatigues  of  yester- 
day? See,  I  place  this  chair  comfortably  near  the  fire 
for  you.  Sit  down,  and,  while  resting,  tell  me  at  your 
leisure  what  it  is  that  you  wish  to  explain." 

And  Joanna  not  only  sat  down  obediently,  but,  rather 
to  his  consternation,  bowed  her  lean  person  together  and 
pressed  a  fine,  black-bordered  pocket-handkerchief — in- 
sisted upon  by  the  stylish  young  person  from  Grays'  as  a 
necessary  part  of  her  mourning  equipment — against  her 
faded  eyes  and  wept.  Ah!  poor  thing!  poor  thing!  she 
was  a  pitiful  spectacle,  a  pitiful  creature,  inciting  all  the 
young  man's  goodness  of  heart,  sense  of  personal  success, 
delight  in  living,  physical  soundness  and  well-being,  to 
claim  sympathy  and  forbearance  toward  her ! 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  declared,  almost  tenderly.  "I  com- 
prehend and  associate  myself  with  your  grief.  The  trial 
has  been  so  prolonged.  You  cannot  expect  to  throw  off 
painful  impressions  and  adjust  yourself  to  new  con- 
ditions immediately.  But  that  adjustment  will  come, 
dear  cousin,  believe  me.  It  is  merely  a  question  of  time, 
for  you  are  young,  and  in  youth  our  recuperative  power 
is  immense.  So  do  not  fight  against  your  tears.  If  they 
relieve  you,  shed  them  freely." 

For  a  while  Joanna  remained  bowed  together,  then  she 
threw  herself  back  in  her  chair  almost  convulsively. 

"You  must  not  be  too  kind  to  me,"  she  cried.  "I 
enjoy  it,  but  it  encourages  my  want  of  self-control." 

"Don't  you  good  English  people  set  an  exaggerated 
value  upon  self-control,  perhaps?"  Adrian  asked,  gently, 
argumentatively.  "Why  waste  so  much  energy  in  the 
effort  to  maintain  an  appearance  of  Red  Indian  stoicism 
and  impassivity?  Why  fear  to  be  human ?  Sensibility 
is  a  grace  rather  than  a  fault,  especially  in  a  woman — " 

He  moved  away  and  stood  by  one  of  the  eastern  win- 

99 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

dows  looking  out  into  the  pine  grove.  A  draught  of  air, 
round  the  corner  of  the  house,  shook  the  stiff  branches. 
He  felt  sorry  for  her,  quite  horribly  sorry.  But,  just 
Heaven,  how  plain  she  was,  with  that  tear-blotched  face 
and  those  quivering  lips  and  nostrils!  Andrew  Merri- 
man's  appraisement  of  her  appearance  and  the  con- 
sequences entailed  by  it  in  respect  of  a  possible  suitor 
were  not  overstated.  Adrian  waited,  giving  not  only 
her,  but  himself,  time  to  recover,  and,  approaching  her 
again,  did  so  smiling. 

"Ah!  that  is  well,  dear  cousin,"  he  said.  "Already 
you  feel  better,  you  regain  your  serenity.  Well  then, 
let  us  talk  quietly  about  this  matter  which  you  wish  to 
explain  to  me." 

"  It  was  about  our  wills — Margaret's  and  mine,  I  mean; 
about  the  disposition  of  our  property."  As  she  spoke 
she  clenched  her  right  hand,  working  it  against  the  palm 
of  her  left,  like  a  ball  working  in  a  socket.  "Mr.  Chal- 
loner  has  mentioned  this  subject  to  Margaret,  impressing 
upon  her  that  we  ought  to  attend  to  it  without  delay." 

"Our  good  Challoner  is  a  little  disposed  to  magnify  his 
office,"  Adrian  put  in,  lightly. 

"So  I  have  thought — sometimes,"  Joanna  agreed,  a 
trace  of  eagerness  in  her  flat,  colorless  voice,  produced — 
as  always — from  the  top  of  an  empty  lung.  "  But  he  has 
great  influence  over  Margaret.  I  do  not  want  to  be  un- 
just, but  I  think  the  ideas  he  suggests  to  her  are  not 
always  suitable.  They  tend  to  create  difficulties  be- 
tween us.  From  what  Margaret  tells  me  I  gather  that 
he  has  discussed  this  subject  very  freely  with  her.  She 
refers  to  it  and  quotes  him  continually  when  we  are  alone. 
I  gather  that  he  thinks  I  ought  to  make  a  will  exclusively 
in  Margaret's  favor,  so  that  in  the  event  of  my  death  the 
estate  may  pass  to  papa's  direct  descendants.  He  tells 
Margaret,  as  I  gather,  that  papa  wished  this  although  he 
left  no  written  instructions  regarding  it.  And  he — he — 
Mr.  Challoner,  I  mean — appears  to  take  for  granted  that 

ioo 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

while  Margaret  will  almost  certainly  marry  now,  it  is  im- 
probable I  shall  ever  marry." 

"But,"  Adrian  cried,  indignantly,  though  against  his 
convictions  and  his  better  judgment,  "in  even  hinting  at 
such  a  thing  Challoner  is  guilty  of  a  very  great  imperti- 
nence !  He  takes  for  granted  that  which  is  no  concern  of 
his,  and  takes  it  for  granted  altogether  prematurely, 
thereby  laying  himself  open  to  a  well-deserved  and  very 
extensive  snubbing." 

Joanna's  breath  caught  in  her  throat.  Again  the 
young  man  felt  her  eyes  fix  on  him  with  an  extraordinary 
intensity  of  gaze. 

"Cousin  Adrian,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  "has  any  one 
ever  told  you — do  you  know — I  think  you  ought  to 
know — about  our  brother  William — about  Bibby?" 

This  time  Adrian  met  her  gaze  steadily.  He  felt  it 
imperative  to  do  so.  To  his  relief,  after  a  momentary 
fluttering,  the  red-rimmed  eyelids  were  lowered. 

"I  have  heard  a  little  about  him,  poor  boy,"  he  an- 
swered, gently  and  respectfully.  "  I  have  heard  that  he 
caused  those  who  loved  him  anxiety  and  trouble." 

"And  humiliation  and  disgrace,"  Joanna  whispered. 

"  But  what  would  you  have,  dear  cousin  ?  It  must  be 
so  at  times.  Life  is  a  tremendous,  a  dangerous,  though, 
in  my  opinion,  a  very  splendid  experiment.  We  all  start 
as  amateurs,  in  ignorance  of  the  laws  which  govern  it. 
Is  it  not,  therefore,  inevitable  that  some  should  get  off 
the  true  lines,  and  make  mistakes  injurious  to  them- 
selves and  lamentable  to  others?" 

"But  papa  did  not  permit  mistakes.  He  never  for- 
gave them." 

"Pardon  me,  but  in  not  forgiving  them  did  he  not 
himself,  perhaps,  commit  the  very  gravest  of  all  mis- 
takes?" Adrian  could  not  resist  asking,  though  he  feared 
the  question  trenched  on  levity. 

"I  wish  I  could  believe  that."  She  spoke  bitterly. 
"  It  would  simplify  so  much  for  me.    I  should  be  so  thank- 

IOI 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

ful  to  believe  it.  It  would  help  to  excuse  Bibby.  I  know 
he  was  weak  in  character;  but  he  was  so  nervous  and 
delicate  as  a  child.  Papa  alarmed  him.  He  demanded 
too  much  of  him,  and  was  stern  and  sarcastic  because 
Bibby  could  not  meet  that  demand.  My  brother  did  not 
go  to  a  preparatory  school,  but  at  thirteen  he  was  sent 
to  Rugby.  It  was  papa's  old  school,  and  he  believed  the 
traditions  and  atmosphere  of  it  were  calculated  to  induce 
the  serious  sense  of  moral  and  intellectual  responsibility 
in  which  he  thought  Bibby  deficient." 

"Poor  child!"  Adrian  murmured. 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "I  am  thankful  you  understand  and 
pity  him.  I  know  papa's  purpose  was  Bibby's  good, 
the  improvement  and  development  of  his  character;  but 
the  treatment  was  too  severe.  It  did  not  brace  him, 
but  only  broke  his  spirit.  He  was  unaccustomed  to 
associate  with  other  boys.  They  frightened  and  bullied 
him.  He  was  so  miserable  that  at  the  beginning  of  his 
second  term  he  ran  away." 

She  waited  a  moment,  struggling  against  rising  emo- 
tion, her  hands  working  again  ball-and-socket  fashion. 

"It  was  all  very  dreadful.  For  nearly  a  week  he  was 
lost.  We  knew  he  could  have  very  little  money,  for  his 
allowance  was  small.  Papa  held  economy  to  be  a  duty  for 
the  young.  I  think,  next  to  mamma,  I  suffered  most, 
for  I  always  loved  Bibby  best — better  than  I  did  Mar- 
garet. I  shall  never  forget  that  week.  I  suppose  papa 
suffered,  too,  in  his  own  way.  He  was  very  silent,  and 
looked  angry.  Andrew  Merriman  traced  Bibby  to  Lon- 
don and  brought  him  home.  Mamma  pleaded  to  keep 
him  for  a  time,  but  he  was  sent  straight  back  to  school. 
About  six  months  later  papa  received  a  request  to  re- 
move him.  He  was  accused  of  taking  money  from 
another  boy's  locker.  Nothing  was  actually  proved, 
but  suspicion  clung  to  him,  and  as  his  general  conduct 
was  reported  unsatisfactory,  the  authorities  thought  it 
better  he  should  leave.     Papa  sent  him  abroad  to  a 

102 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

private  school  at  Lausanne.  He  remained  there  three 
years,  until  he  was  seventeen.  Papa  refused  to  let  him 
spend  the  holidays  at  home,  so  during  the  whole  of  that 
time  we  only  saw  him  twice,  when  we  were  traveling." 

The  monotonous,  colorless  voice,  the  monotonous 
story  of  well-meaning,  cold-blooded  tyranny  it  narrated, 
got  upon  the  listener's  nerves.  With  difficulty  he  re- 
strained explosive  comment  reflecting  far  from  politely 
upon  the  so  recently  buried  dead.  He  really  could  not 
sit  still  under  the  indignation  it  provoked  in  him.  He 
got  up,  moved  away  and  stood  leaning  his  shoulder 
against  the  dark,  polished  woodwork  of  the  eastern 
window,  his  back  to  the  light.  He  thought  it  well 
the  narrator  should  not  see  his  expression  too  clearly. 

"It  is  almost  inconceivable,"  he  said. 

"I  am  not  exaggerating,  Cousin  Adrian,"  Joanna 
returned,  straining  her  eyes  in  the  effort  to  fix  them  upon 
his  face.  "All  these  events  in  their  consecutive  order 
are  stamped  indelibly  upon  my  memory." 

"I  am  convinced  you  are  not  exaggerating,  my  dear 
cousin,  and  just  on  that  very  account  it  is  the  more  in- 
conceivable," Adrian  declared. 

"But  in  your  present  relation  to  us — to  me — I  feel 
you  ought  to  know  all  about  poor  Bibby,  all  about 
our — my — family  history.  My  duty  is  to  place  the  facts 
before  you.  I  should  be  guilty  of  great  self-indulgence 
if  I  concealed  anything  from  you  in  that  connection," 
Joanna  protested,  with  growing  agitation.  "I  should 
do  very  wrong  if,  to  spare  myself  pain,  I  deceived  you." 

And  again  that  sensation  of  embarrassment,  of  un- 
certainty how  to  comport  himself,  returned  upon  Adrian. 

"But,  dear  cousin,"  he  said,  in  a  mildly  argumentative 
manner,  "don't  you  emphasize  the  obligation  of  truth- 
telling  unnecessarily?  I  am  here  to  be  of  help  to  you, 
to  shield  you,  in  so  far  as  possible,  from  that  which  is 
distressing.  In  thus  reviving  painful  memories  do  you 
not  defeat  the  very  object  of  my  presence?" 

103 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"Oh  no,  no,"  Joanna  cried.  "Surely  you  realize  how 
bitterly  I  might  have  cause  to  upbraid  myself — later — 
if  I  now  left  anything  untold  which  it  was  right  you 
should  have  heard  ?  It  is  incumbent  upon  me,  a  matter 
of — of  honor,  to  be  perfectly  explicit." 

Adrian  raised  his  eyebrows  the  least  bit.  How  provi- 
dential he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  light!  He  passed 
his  left  hand  down  over  his  neat  black  beard,  and  his 
lips  parted  silently.  Poor,  dear  young  woman,  what  in 
the  name  of  wonder  did —  And  then  he  came  near  laugh- 
ing. The  idea  was  too  preposterous,  and,  worse  still — 
shame  filled  him  at  even  momentary  entertainment  of 
it — too  fatuous!     He  gave  it  unqualified  dismissal. 

"No,"  she  repeated,  with  a  veiled  and  somber  vio- 
lence, "I  should  do  very  wrong  by  permitting  you  to  re- 
main in  ignorance.  I  should  deserve  any  after  suffering 
which  might  come  to  me.  For  I  have  a  duty  to  fulfil  to 
Bibby  as  well — that  is  what  I  wanted  to  explain  to  you 
before  giving  instructions  to  Mr.  Challoner  about  draft- 
ing my  will.  Some  day  my  duty  to  Bibby  may  appear  to 
clash  with  another  duty;  and  therefore  it  is  necessary 
you  should  know  clearly  beforehand." 

Joanna  flung  herself  back  in  her  chair. 

"Whatever  it  may  cost  me  now  or — or — in  the  future, 
I  must  tell  you  the  rest,  Adrian." 

More  mystified  than  ever,  startled  by  the  use  of  his 
Christian  name  without  any  qualifying  prefix,  at  once 
affected  and  repelled  by  her  excitement,  the  young  man 
moved  from  his  station  at  the  window  and  stood  near 
her,  leaning  his  hands  upon  the  head  of  the  ungainly 
adjustable,  couch. 

"Pray  tell  me  any  and  everything  which  may  help  to 
procure  you  relief,"  he  said,  kindly. 

And  Joanna,  lying  back,  looked  up  at  him,  an  immense 
appeal,  a  something  desperate  and  unsatiable  in  her 
faded  blue  eyes,  which  made  him  consciously  shrink. 
The  Ibsen  woman — the  Ibsen  woman  in  another  mani- 

104 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

festation! — It  was  not  pleasant.  He  didn't  like  it  in  the 
very  least. — Then,  as  if  at  the  touch  of  a  spring,  she  sat 
bolt  upright,  looking  past  him  out  of  the  window  at  the 
dark,  wind-shaken  branches  of  the  pines. 

"When  my  brother  returned  from  Lausanne,"  she 
began  again  in  that  colorless,  monotonous  voice,  "he 
was  put  into  Andrew  Merriman's  office  at  the  mills. 
Mamma  and  I  were  glad  at  first.  We  trusted  Andrew 
Merriman.  He  had  always  been  tactful  and  kind  about 
Bibby.  But  papa  decided  he — my  brother — should  live 
at  home  so  that  he  might  exert  a  direct  personal  au- 
thority over  him.  And  the  two  had  nothing,  nothing  in 
common.  You  can  judge  from  the  contents  of  this 
library  what  papa's  tastes  and  pursuits  were.  My 
brother  did  not  care  anything  about  politics,  or  social 
reform,  or  that  class  of  subject.  He  was  pleasure-loving, 
and  I  do  not  think  his  long  stay  abroad  improved 
him  in  that  respect.  Papa  supposed  the  discipline  at 
M.  Leonard's  school  to  be  rigid.  Among  the  elder  boys 
I  have  reason  to  fear  it  was  decidedly  lax." 

Adrian  made  a  slight  movement  of  comprehension. 
He  could  picture  the  regime,  and  could  well  imagine  the 
nice  little  games  these  exiled  young  gentlemen  had  been 
at! 

"Papa  was  stern;  Bibby  inattentive,  sullen,  and 
nervous.  At  dinner  we — mamma  and  I — used  con- 
stantly to  be  in  dread  of  collisions.  We  were  in  per- 
petual anxiety  as  to  what  Bibby  might  inadvertently 
say,  or  not  say,  which  might  provoke  papa's  sarcasm. 
Then  mamma's  health  began  to  give  way.  We  went  to 
Torquay  for  the  winter,  taking  the  servants,  and  High- 
dene  was  shut  up.  Bibby  went  into  lodgings  near  to 
Andrew  Merriman,  in  the  suburb  of  Leeds,  in  which  the 
mills  are  situated.  Papa  wishing  to  train  him  in  habits 
of  economy,  only  allowed  him  the  salary  of  a  junior 
clerk.  But  every  one  there  knew  we  were  rich,  so 
the  tradespeople  were    only  too   ready  to  give  Bibby 

i  OS 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

credit,  while  unscrupulous  persons  borrowed  of  him. 
He  was  naturally  generous,  and  easily  imposed  upon, 
and^he  enjoyed  the  society  of  those  who  flattered  and 
made  much  of  him.  It  was  said  he  frequented  low  com- 
pany, that  he  gambled  at  cards  and  got  intoxicated.  I 
I  do  not  know  how  far  this  was  true,  but  he  did  get 
deeply  into  debt.  More  than  once  Andrew  Merriman 
helped  him,  but  he  could  not  afford  to  be  responsible  for 
Bibby's  continued  extravagance.  And  then — then — my 
brother  manipulated  certain  accounts  and  embezzled  a 
large  sum  of  money.  Andrew  Merriman  discovered  this. 
He  tried  to  shield  him,  and  interceded  with  papa  for 
him—" 

The  speaker  broke  off,  pausing  for  breath,  bending 
down  as  though  crushed  by  the  weight  of  her  recollections. 

"It  was  very,  very  dreadful,"  she  said.  "Papa  paid 
my  brother's  debts,  but  he  forbade  him  all  intercourse 
with  us.  He  cut  Bibby  out  of  our  family  life,  as  a  sur- 
geon might  cut  out  some  malignant  growth.  He  re- 
garded him  thus,  I  think — indeed,  he  said  so  once — as  a 
diseased  part  the  excision  of  which  was  imperative  if  the 
moral  health  of  the  family  was  to  be  preserved.  He 
gave  Andrew  Merriman  a  capital  sum,  which  was  to  be 
remitted  to  Bibby  in  small  quarterly  instalments.  When 
that  sum  was  exhausted  he  was  to  receive  nothing 
further.  We  never  saw  him  again.  Papa  bought  this 
house,  and  we  moved  here.  He  would  not  remain  at 
Highdene.  The  scandal  had  been  too  great.  He  could 
not  forgive,  nor  could  he  endure  pity.  He  made  the 
business  into  a  company,  and  retired.  Mamma  had  be- 
come a  complete  invalid.  The  doctors  thought  this 
climate  might  benefit  her;  and  then  this  place  is  far 
away  from  our  former  friends  and  associations.  We 
knew  no  one  here." 

Joanna  raised  herself,  looking,  not  at  Adrian  Savage, 
but  past  him,  out  at  the  dusky  pines.  She  wiped  her 
lips  with  her  black-bordered  handkerchief. 

1 06 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"That  is  all,  Cousin  Adrian,"  she  said. 

But,  when  the  young  man  would  have  spoken  she  held 
up  one  hand  restrainingly,  and  he  saw  that  she  shivered. 

"Except — except  this,"  she  went  on.  "Papa  ordered 
that  Bibby  should  be  considered  as  dead.  Later  Andrew 
ceased  to  hear  from  him,  and  rumors  came  that  he  was 
actually  dead — that  he  had  died  at  Buenos  Ayres,  where 
he  had  gone  as  a  member  of  some  theatrical  troupe.  But 
mamma  and  I  never  credited  those  rumors.  Nor  did 
Andrew  Merriman.     He  does  not  credit  them  now." 

She  turned  her  head,  looking  full  at  Adrian  with  that 
same  desperation  of  appeal. 

"I  asked  him  yesterday,"  she  said.  "It  was  dreadful 
to  speak  to  him  on  the  subject,  but  I  felt  it  my  duty  to 
do  so.  I  felt  I  ought  to  know  where  I  stood  in  regard  to 
my  fortune,  because — because  of  the  future.  Andrew 
believes  my  brother  is  still  alive.  And  that  is  why  I  must 
refuse  to  make  a  will  in  Margaret's  favor.  If,  as  you  say, 
papa  made  the  gravest  of  all  mistakes  in  never  pardoning 
mistakes,  clearly  my  duty  to  his  memory  is  to  redress 
the  mistake  he  made  in  the  case  of  my  brother  in  as  far 
as  it  is  possible  for  me  to  do  so.  Margaret  will  have 
ample  means  of  her  own.  I  cannot  be  ruled  by  Mr.  Chal- 
loner's  opinion." 

Joanna  rose  and  walked  over  to  the  window,  standing 
exactly  where  Adrian  had  stood  some  ten  minutes  before. 
There  seemed  a  definite  purpose  in  her  selection  of  the 
exact  spot,  both  in  the  placing  of  her  feet  and  the  leaning 
of  her  shoulder  against  the  window-frame.  Her  back 
was  to  the  light.  Adrian  could  not  see  the  expression  of 
her  face  distinctly.  He  was  glad  of  this.  He  did  not 
want  to  see  it,  for  again  he  was  conscious  of  shrinking 
from  her. 

"After  all,  Mr.  Challoner  may  be  wrong— as  you  your- 
self just  now  said,  Cousin  Adrian— in  takixig  for  granted 
I  shall  never  marry.  I  may  marry.  But,  whatever 
happens,  I  shall  not  leave  any  part  of  my  fortune  to 
8  io7 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Margaret.  I  shall  leave  two-thirds  of  it  to  Bibby,  and 
the  rest — " 

Smallbridge  threw  open  the  library  door. 

"Mr.  Challoner,  ma'am,"  he  said;  and  the  Stourmouth 
solicitor,  his  Mongolian  countenance  quite  strikingly  de- 
void of  all  expression,  ponderously  entered  the  room. 


II 

THE   DRAWINGS    UPON   THE   WALL 


CHAPTER  I 

A    WASTER 

IT  was  still  cold,  but  the  skies  were  clear.  The  snow 
had  been  carted  away  and  Paris  was  herself  again ;  the 
note  of  her  exhilarating,  seductive,  vibrant — a  note  at 
once  curiously  fiercer  and  more  feminine  than  that  of 
London. 

Rene  Dax,  crossing  the  Place  du  Carrousel,  stood  for 
a  moment  listening  to  that  vibrant  note,  sensible  of  its 
charm  and  challenge;  looking  westward,  meanwhile, 
across  the  Tuileries  Gardens  and  Place  de  la  Concorde 
to  the  ascending  perspective  of  the  Champs-Elysees. 
The  superb  ensemble  and  detail  of  the  scene,  softened 
by  lavender  mist  at  the  ground  levels,  was  crowned  by 
the  blood-red  and  gold  of  a  wide-flung  frosty  sunset — a 
city  of  fire,  as  the  young  man  told  himself,  built  on 
foundations  of  dreams! 

He  had  just  come  away  from  the  press  view  of  a 
one-man  show  of  his  own  drawings.  The  rooms  were 
crowded  to  suffocation.  The  success  of  the  exhibition 
was  already  assured,  promising  to  be  prodigious,  to 
amount  to  a  veritable  sensation.  He  was  aware  of  this, 
yet  his  mood  remained  an  unhappy  one.  As  usual  the 
critics  showed  themselves  a  herd  of  imbeciles.  They 
praised  the  wrong  things,  or,  more  exasperating  still, 
praising  the  right  ones  praised  them  wrongly,  extolling 
their  weak  points  rather  than  their  fine  ones,  misin- 
terpreting their  message  and  inner  meaning.  Had 
Adrian  Savage  been  there — unluckily  he  was  still  in  Eng- 
land— some  sense  might  have  been  spoken.     Adrian  was 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

an  austere  critic,  but  always  an  intelligent  and  discrimi- 
nating one.  As  for  the  rest  of  the  confraternity — Rene 
gazed  mournfully  at  the  flaming  sunset  splendor — they 
got  upon  his  nerves,  they  nauseated  him. 

And  it  all  went  deeper  than  that.  For  those  many 
square  yards  of  wall,  plastered  with  his  mordant  verdict 
upon  the  human  species,  got  upon  his  nerves,  too,  and 
nauseated  him.  He  recoiled,  as  he  had  often  recoiled 
before — taking  it  thus  wholesale — from  his  own  merciless 
exposure  of  the  follies,  vulgarities,  the  mental  and 
physical  deformities  and  distortions  of  his  fellow-crea- 
tures; recoiled  from  the  reek  of  his  own  Rabelaisian 
humor,  of  his  own  extravagant  ribaldry  and  ingenious 
grossness.  It  was  his  vocation,  as  that  of  other  and 
more  famous  satirists,  to  wreak  a  vindictive  vengeance 
thus  upon  humanity.  Only,  in  his  care,  reaction  in- 
variably followed.  The  devil  of  unsanctified  laughter 
for  the  time  satiated  and  cast  out  of  him,  he  wandered — 
as  this  evening — a  very  sad  and  plaintive  little  being, 
firmly  resolving — as  how  often  before ! — once  and  for  all 
to  throw  away  his  rather  horrible  pencil,  and  betake  him- 
self exclusively  to  the  construction  of  those  delicate 
lyrics  and  rondels  from  which,  whatever  minor  perver- 
sions of  sentiment  they  might  exhibit,  the  witty  bestiality 
common  to  his  caricatures  was  conspicuously  absent. 

He  wanted  to  forget  the  hot,  close  rooms,  packed 
with  admirers,  male,  and,  though  happily  in  a  minority, 
female  also.  By  Rend  Dax  that  minority  was  held  in 
particularly  small  respect.  The  woman  who  relished, 
or  affected  to  relish,  his  art  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  her- 
self— such  at  least  was  his  opinion.  His  art  was  meant 
for  men,  not  for  women;  and  the  women  who  couldn't 
arrive  at  that  conclusion  by  instinct,  unaided,  were 
women  for  whom,  especially  in  his  existing  mood,  he  had 
no  use  whatever,  didn't  want  in  the  very  least.  That 
which  he  did  want,  under  the  head  of  things  feminine, 
was  something  conspicuously  different — a  far-removed, 

112 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

stately,  inaccessible  type  of  womanhood.  And,  still 
more,  he  wanted  the  child  who  should  grow  into  such 
womanhood  —  a  tender,  elusive,  sprite -like,  spotlessly 
innocent  and  unsoiled  creature,  to  whom  moral  and 
physical  ugliness  were  equally  unknown  and  equally, 
saving  the  paradox,  abhorrent. 

Well,  were  not  the  tall,  old-fashioned  houses  of  the 
Quai  Malaquais  across  the  river  there  just  opposite,  and 
was  it  not  still  early  enough  to  pay  a  visit  ?  But  then,  as 
he  rather  fretfully  remembered,  Madame  St.  Leger  had 
been  pertinaciously  invisible  of  late.  He  had  called 
several  times,  only  to  be  told  she  was  not  receiving  or 
that  she  was  out.  He  had  never  succeeded  in  seeing  her 
and  little  Bette ;  never,  now  that  he  came  to  think  of  it, 
since  the  day  of  the  great  snow,  the  day  when  Adrian, 
whose  absence  he  had  just  been  deploring,  left  for 
England. 

The  bringing  of  these  two  facts  into  any  relation  of 
cause  and  effect  had  not  previously  occurred  to  him. 
It  did  not  do  so  seriously  even  now.  Yet  unquestionably 
the  names  of  Madame  St.  Leger  and  Adrian  Savage  took 
up  a  position  side  by  side  in  his  mind,  thereby  subtly 
coloring  his  reflections.  He  had  no  friend  upon  whom  he 
depended  and  who,  in  his  capricious  exacting  fashion, 
he  loved  as  he  did  Adrian.  The  friendship  had  remained 
practically  unbroken  since  the  time  when  Adrian,  the 
healthier,  happier-natured  boy,  protected  him,  the  queer 
little  Tadpole,  from  tormentors  at  school.  This  friend- 
ship had  been  among  the  wholesomest  influences  of  his 
life,  and,  amid  many  aberrations  and  perversities  of 
thought  and  conduct,  he  clung  to  it.  But  it  followed  on 
his  self-absorption  and  selfishness,  natural  and  assumed, 
that  his  friend's  interests  and  concerns,  save  in  so  far 
as  they  bore  direct  relation  to  his  own,  were  a  matter  of 
indifference  to  him.  He  had  never  troubled  himself 
as  to  the  possible  state  or  direction  of  Adrian's  affec- 
tions, and.   oerhaps   consequently,  this  sudden   juxta- 

113 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

position  of  names  came  to  him  as  a  surprise,  and  an 
irritating  one. 

Slipping  in  and  out  between  private  cars,  taxis,  and 
humbler,  horse-drawn  vehicles,  he  crossed  the  roadway 
to  the  Pont  des  Saints  Peres.  The  sunset  glories  faded, 
while  avenues  of  living  white  and  glow-worm  green  lights 
sprang  into  being.  Still,  here  and  there,  red  splashes,  as 
of  blood,  stained  the  livid,  swirling  surface  of  the  Seine, 
which,  in  half  flood,  fed  by  the  melted  snow,  hissed  and 
gurgled  under  the  arches  and  against  the  masonry  of  the 
bridge. 

As  it  happened,  just  then,  a  lull  occurred  in  the 
cross-river  traffic,  a  break  in  the  quick-moving  throng  of 
foot-passengers,  so  that  in  front  of  Rene"  Dax  the  pale 
arc  of  the  right-hand  pavement  showed  empty  in  the 
whole  of  its  length,  save  for  a  single  tall,  slouching, 
shabby  figure,  clothed  in  a  blue-serge  suit  unmistakably 
English  in  cut  and  in  pattern.  As  Rene"  advanced,  his 
mind  still  working  around  those  two  names  set  in  such 
irritating  juxtaposition,  he  saw  the  man  in  the  English- 
made  suit  first  glance  sharply  to  right  and  left,  then 
bend  down,  grasping  the  outer  edge  of  the  parapet,  while 
slowly  and,  as  it  seemed,  furtively,  drawing  one  knee  up 
on  to  the  flat  of  the  coping. 

— Was  it  possible  that  Madame  St.  Leger's  repeated 
refusals  to  receive  him  were  other  than  accidental? 
Was  it  possible  they  had  some  connection  with  Adrian's 
absence?  Was  it  conceivable  his  friend  had  turned 
traitor,  had  interfered,  saying  or  hinting  at  that  which 
might,  socially,  justify  such  denial  of  admission?  Sus- 
picion, resentment,  self-pity,  a  lively  sense  of  personal 
injury  invaded  him. — 

The  shabby,  slouching  loafer's  right  knee  was  fairly 
upon  the  coping  now.  He  threw  up  both  arms,  threw 
back  his  head,  his  mouth  opened  wide  as  one  letting 
loose  a  great  cry.  Rene-  Dax  saw  his  extended  arms, 
his  bare  head,  his  profile  with  that  wide-open  mouth, 

H4 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

dark  against  a  pale  background  of  buildings  and  cold, 
translucent  sky.  The  effect  was  of  the  strangest,  the 
more  so  that  no  sound  came  from  the  apparently  loud- 
crying  mouth.  Suddenly  his  chin  dropped  on  his  breast. 
His  hands  were  lowered,  clutching  at  the  edge  of  the 
parapet  again,  and  he  remained  thus  for  a  few  seconds, 
immobile,  crouched  together, his  left  foot,  in  a  well-cut  but 
bulging  hole-riddled  boot, still  resting  upon  the  pavement. 

Then  in  a  flash,  awakening  from  contemplation  of  his 
own  lately  discovered  woes,  Rene  realized  what  was 
about  to  occur.  His  height  and  reach  were  insufficient, 
encumbered  as  he  was,  moreover,  by  a  thick  fur-lined 
overcoat,  for  him  to  get  his  arms  round  the  crouching 
figure.  So  he  just  clutched  whatever  came  handiest, 
the  back  of  the  fellow's  jacket,  the  slack  of  the  seat  of  his 
trousers.  Exerting  all  his  strength,  Rene"  hauled  and 
jerked  at  these  well-worn  garments.  The  attack,  though 
neither  very  forcible  nor  very  scientific,  was  completely 
unexpected.  The  man's  grip  relaxed.  His  knee  slipped 
and  he  fell  back,  an  amorphous  indigo  and  sandy-red 
heap,  upon  the  pallid  asphalt. 

Rene1  pulled  a  scented  pocket-handkerchief  out  of  the 
breast-pocket  of  his  coat  and  proceeded  delicately  to  wipe 
the  fingers  and  palms  of  his  gray  suede  gloves.  He  was 
unaccustomed  to  such  exertion.  His  heart  thumped 
against  his  ribs.  His  sight  was  blurred.  He  felt  slightly 
faint  and  light  -  headed  and  was  grateful  for  the  cold 
back-draught  of  air  off  the  rapidly  flowing  river.  It  was 
his  pride,  part  of  his  pose,  in  fact,  never  to  display 
emotion;  and  he  now  found  himself  excited  and  shaken, 
by  no  means  fully  self-possessed.  He  needed  a  space  of 
quiet  in  which  to  regain  his  accustomed  affectations  of 
bearing  and  manner.  He  was  aware,  too,  that  those 
shabby  garments  were  decidedly  unpleasant  to  touch. 
Therefore  he  stood  still,  breathing  rather  hard  through 
his  nostrils,  and  daintily  wiping  the  neat,  little  gray  suede 
gloves  incasing  his  quick,  clever  little  fingers. 

"5 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"  I  must  express  regret  for  my  violence,"  he  said,  with 
the  utmost  civility,  to  the  heap  on  the  pavement,  as  soon 
as  he  judged  his  voice  sufficiently  steady  for  speech.  "  I 
must  apologize  to  you  for  such  absence  of  ceremony, 
but  really,  my  dear  sir,  it  appeared  to  me  no  time  should 
be  lost.  You  had,  unconsciously  of  course,  placed  your- 
self in  a  highly  ridiculous  position  from  which  it  was 
clearly  incumbent  upon  me,  as  an  amiable  and  sympa- 
thetic person,  immediately  to  remove  you.  At  times 
one  is  compelled  to  act  with  decision  rather  than  polite- 
ness. This  was  a  case  in  point.  Doubtless  you  are  at 
present  annoyed  with  me.  But  a  few  moments'  reflec- 
tion will,  I  feel  sure,  commend  my  action  to  you.  You 
will  recognize  how  right,  even  to  the  point  of  an  apparent 
sacrifice  of  personal  dignity,  I  was." 

The  man  by  now  had  got  upon  all  fours,  looking 
like  some  unsightly,  shambling  animal.  Limply  he 
rose  to  his  feet  and,  supporting  himself  against  the 
balustrade,  turned  upon  his  savior  a  dissipated  boy- 
ish countenance,  down  which  tears  dribbled  misera- 
bly. 

"Why  the  devil  couldn't  you  leave  me  alone?"  he 
asked,  petulantly,  in  English.  "What  earthly  concern 
is  it  of  yours?     Aren't  I  my  own  master?" 

His  voice  rose  to  a  wail. 

"I've  been  trying  to  —  to  do  it  all  day,  but  there 
have  been  too  many  people  about.  They  stared  at  me. 
They  suspected  and  followed  me.  I  could  not  dodge 
them.  Now  I  thought  the  opportunity  had  come. 
I  was  rid  of  them  at  last.  I  never  saw  you,  curse  you, 
you're  so  short.  After  all,  one  doesn't  think  of  looking 
on  the  ground,  except  for  vermin.  And  I'd  just  pulled 
myself  together.  I  mayn't  have  the  nerve  to  try  again. 
I've  lost  my  chance,"  he  wailed,  childishly,  his  weak, 
loose-lipped  mouth  twisted  by  the  wretchedness  of  crying. 
"I've  lost  my  chance  through  you,  you  beast.  And 
you've  torn  my  coat,  too.     It's  the  only  one  I  have  left; 

116 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

and  I  did  want  to  look  decent,  when  they  found  me,  when 
I  was  dead." 

He  flung  away  passionately,  pressing  his  face  down  on 
his  folded  arms  upon  the  parapet,  while  his  angular 
shoulders  heaved  and  his  body  shuddered  under  the 
ragged  blue-serge  jacket. 

"  I  shall  not  have  the  pluck  again.  I  know  myself,  and 
I  sha'n't  have  it.  By  now  I  should  have  been  out  of 
the  whole  accursed  tangle.  The  whole  show  would  have 
been  over  —  over  —  I  should  know  nothing  more.  I 
should  be  quit  of  my  misery.  I  should  be  dead — ah !  my 
God,  dead — dead — " 

But  Rend  Dax  continued  to  wipe  his  neat,  little  gray 
suede  gloves.  For  his  mood  had  changed.  The  taunt 
regarding  his  smallness  of  stature  had  turned  him 
wicked,  so  that  the  exquisite  minor  poet,  yearning  for 
the  companionship  of  things  pure,  lovely,  and  of  good 
report,  fled  away.  The  injured  friend  fled  away  like- 
wise. And  the  satirist,  the  caricaturist,  impure  and  un- 
simple,  greedy  of  human  ugliness  and  degradation, 
malignant,  mercilessly  scoffing,  reigned  in  their  stead. 
And  here,  in  this  loose-limbed,  blue-eyed,  tawny-headed 
foreign  youth — whose  voice  and  speech,  coarseness  of 
expression  notwithstanding,  witnessed  to  education  and 
gentle  blood — vainly  essaying  to  drown  himself  under 
the  dying  sunset  skies  of  the  city  of  fire  built  on  founda- 
tions of  dreams,  was  a  subject,  surely  made  to  the 
satirist's  hand,  a  subject  of  great  price!  The  despotism 
of  his  art  came  upon  Rene'  Dax,  that  necessity  for  ven- 
geance upon  humanity ;  and  this  time,  for  him,  the  edge 
of  vengeance  was  sharpened  by  personal  insult.  For  this 
was  no  common  vagabond  wastrel,  thrown  up  from  the 
foul  underlying  dregs  of  the  population,  but  a  person  of 
condition,  once  his  social  equal,  whose  insolence  there- 
fore touched  his  honor  as  that  of  a  man  of  the  people 
could  not. 

"  You  are  offensive,  my  young  friend,"  he  said,  in  care- 

117 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

ful,  slightly  over-pronounced,  but  fluent  English.  "  You 
are  also  remarkably  unattractive  and  wanting  in  intel- 
ligence. But  I,  being  happily  none  of  these  things — 
offensive,  I  would  say,  unattractive  or  wanting  in  in- 
telligence— can  afford  to  be  magnanimous.  Learn,  then, 
that  had  I  not  intervened — at  much  inconvenience  to 
myself — to  prevent  your  projecting  your  unsavory  car- 
cass into  the  river,  but  permitted  you  to  carry  out  your 
thrice-idiotic  purpose,  it  would  not,  as  you  say,  have 
been  all  over  by  now  and  you  quit  of  your  misery,  not 
one  bit  of  it!  Were  you  less  crude  in  idea,  less  bestially 
ignorant,  you  would  be  aware  that  the  principle  of  life 
is  indestructible.  Choking  and  struggling  in  the  black 
water  there  you  would  have  suffered  abominable  dis- 
comfort. But,  even  when  the  process  of  asphyxiation 
was  complete,  you  yourself  would  have  been  still  alive, 
still  conscious,  and  would  have  discovered,  to  your 
infinite  chagrin,  that  you  had  merely  exchanged  one 
state  of  being  for  an  other  and  more  odious  one." 

Rene  rested  his  elbows  upon  the  top  of  the  balustrade, 
and,  putting  his  little,  tired  baby  face  close,  spoke  with 
incisive  clearness  of  enunciation  into  the  young  man's 
ear. 

"  Be  under  no  delusion,"  he  said.  "  Once  alive,  always 
alive.  There  is  no  breaking  out  of  that  prison.  It  is  too 
cleverly  constructed.  You  cannot  get  away.  Your  sen- 
tence is  for  life;  and  there  is  no  term  to  living — none, 
absolutely  none,  forever  and  forever.  You  might  have 
killed  your  present  very  unpleasing  body,  I  grant,  but 
this  would  not  have  advanced  matters.  For  your  essen- 
tial self,  the  Me,  the  ego,  would  have  remained  and  would 
have  been  compelled  by  incalculable  and  indomitable 
natural  forces  to  surround  itself  with  another  body,  in 
which  to  endure  the  shame  of  birth,  the  agonizing  sor- 
rows of  childhood,  and  all  that  which,  from  childhood,  has 
rendered  existence  intolerable  to  you,  over  again.  Or 
you  might,  very  probably,  have  come  to  rebirth  lower 

118 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

down  in  the  scale  of  creation — as  a  beetle  to  be  crushed 
under  foot,  a  dog  to  be  pinned  out  on  the  vivisector's 
table,  a  lamb  to  be  flayed  at  the  abattoir,  a  worm  to 
writhe  on  the  fisherman's  hook,  a  formless  grub  to  bloat 
itself  with  carrion." 

Here  the  wretched  youth  raised  his  head  and  stared  at 
his  self-constituted  mentor.  Tearful  wretchedness  had 
given  place  to  an  expression  of  moral  terror,  almost 
trenching  on  insanity — terror  of  immeasurable  possi- 
bilities, of  conceptions  monstrous  and  unnatural. 

"Who  are  you,  what  are  you,"  he  cried,  "you  minc- 
ing little  devil?  Isn't  it  all  horrible  enough  already 
without  you  trying  to  scare  me?  I  hate  you.  And  you 
haven't  been  dead.     How  can  you  know?" 

"Ah!  you  begin  to  take  notice,  to  listen.  And  al- 
though you  continue  offensive,  that  you  should  listen  is 
satisfactory,  as  it  assures  me  my  amiable  attentions  and 
instructive  conversation  are  not  altogether  wasted. 
Learn  then,  my  cherished  pupil,"  Rene  added,  in  a  soft, 
easy,  small-talk  tone,  "that  you  are  still  in  error,  since  I 
— I  who  so  patiently  reason  with  you — have  unques- 
tionably been  dead  scores,  hundreds,  probably  thousands 
of  times.  I  have  sampled  many  different  incarnations, 
just  as  you,  doubtless,  under  less  indigent  circumstances, 
have  sampled  dinners  at  many  different  restaurants; 
with  this  distinction,  however,  that  whereas,  in  Paris 
at  all  events,  you  must  have  eaten  a  number  of  quite 
passable  dinners,  I  have  never  yet  experienced  an  incar- 
nation which  was  not  in  the  main  detestable,  a  flagrant 
outrage  on  sensibility  and  good  taste.  Hence,  you  see, 
I  do  not  speak  at  random,  but  from  a  wide  basis  of  fact. 
I  know  all  about  it.  And,  therefore,  I  just  emphasize 
this  point  once  more.  Engrave  it  upon  the  tablets  of 
your  memory.  It  is  well  worth  remembering,  particu- 
larly in  reckless  and  exaggerated  moments.  Life  is  in- 
destructible. To  end  it  is  merely  to  begin  it  under 
slightly  altered  material  conditions,  with  a  prelude    of 

119 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

acute  mental  and  physical  discomfort  thrown  in;  hideous 
disappointment,  moreover,  waiting  to  transfix  you  when 
your  higher  faculties  are — like  mine — sufficiently  de- 
veloped for  you  to  have  acquired  the  power  of  looking 
backward  and  visualizing  the  premutations  of  your 
past." 

The  speaker  turned  sideways,  leaning  on  one  elbow. 
He  took  his  handkerchief  neatly  from  his  breast-pocket 
again  and  held  it  to  his  nose. 

"  Really,  you  do  need  washing  rather  badly,  my  young 
friend!"  he  said.  "But  not  down  there,  not  in  the  but 
dubiously  cleanly  waters  of  our  beloved  Seine.  A 
Turkish  bath,  and  a  vigorous  shampoo  afterward,  and, 
subsequently,  a  change  of  linen. — However,  that,  for  the 
moment,  must  wait.  To  return  to  our  little  lesson  in 
practical  philosophy. — I  have  rescued  you  from  the  dis- 
aster of  premature  reincarnation.  I  have  also  striven  to 
improve  your  mind,  to  enlighten  you,  and  that  at  con- 
siderable discomfort  to  myself,  for  I  find  it  very  cold 
standing  and  instructing  you  in  the  fundamental  prin- 
ciples of  being,  here  on  this  remarkably  draughty 
bridge.  I  risk  double  pneumonia  in  your  service.  Be 
grateful,  then,  and  make  suitable  acknowledgment  of 
the  immense  charity  I  have  shown  you." 

"  You  are  a  devil,  and  I  hate  you.  Why  can't  you  go 
away?"  the  young  man  answered  in  a  terrified  sulkiness. 

"Truly  you  are  mistaken,"  Rend  returned,  imperturb- 
ably.  "My  charity  is  too  great  to  permit  me  to  go  away 
until  you,  my  pupil,  are  provided  for.  You  have  so 
much  which  it  would  be  to  your  advantage  to  learn! 
I  am  not  a  devil.  No — but  I  admit  that  I  am,  to- 
day, one  of  the  most-talked-about  persons  in  Paris.  I 
must  therefore  entreat  you  to  adopt  a  more  respectful 
tone  and  less  accentuated  manner.  We  have  ceased  to 
be  alone.  Many  people  are  crossing  the  bridge.  Among 
them  must  be  those  to  whom  my  appearance  is  familiar ; 
and,  if  I  am  remarked  pleading  thus  with  a  debauched, 

1 20 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

would-be  suicide,  I  shall  certainly  read  in  the  morning 
papers  that  M.  Rene  Dax  has  discovered  a  new  method  of 
self-advertisement,  a  catchy  puff  for  his  picture-show. 
This  would  be  disagreeable  to  me.  My  work  is  big 
enough  to  stand  on  its  own  merits.  Self-advertisement, 
in  my  case,  is  as  superfluous  as  it  is  vulgar.  Compose 
yourself.  Cease  to  be  ridiculous.  And  above  all  do 
not  call  me  rude  names  in  the  hearing  of  the  public. 
Ah!   excellent! — There  is  an  empty  cab." 

He  hailed  a  passing  taxi,  and,  as  the  chauffeur  drew 
up  to  the  curb,  put  his  arm  within  that  of  his  com- 
panion, persuasively,  even  affectionately. 

"  Come,  then,  my  child,"  he  said.  "  See,  my  charity  is 
really  inexhaustible!  I  will  take  you  home  with  me, 
though  I  confess  you  are  a  far  from  fragrant  fellow- 
traveler,  pending  that  so  desirable  Turkish  bath.  And, 
listen — I  will  take  you  home,  I  will  also  feed  you.  And 
I  will  draw  little  pictures  of  you,  several  little  pictures, 
because  I  find  in  you  a  singularly  edifying  example  of 
a  singularly  degraded  type.  After  I  have  drawn  as  many 
little  pictures  as  pleases  me,  I  will  have  you  washed,  I 
will  give  you  clothes,  I  will  give  you  money,  and  then  I 
will  send  you  away  without  asking  any  questions,  with- 
out so  much  as  inquiring  your  name." 

He  moved  toward  the  waiting  car,  the  door  of  which 
the  chauffeur  held  open.  But  the  young  man  showed  a 
disposition  to  struggle  and  hang  back. 

"Get  in,  dirty  animal,  or  I  call  the  police,"  Rend  Dax 
ordered,  sharply,  "and  recount  to  them  your  recent 
exploit.  They  will  not  give  you  money  or  clothes, 
nor  will  they  abstain  from  asking  inconvenient  questions. 
Ah!   you  decide  to  accompany  me?     That  is  well." 

And,  with  a  roughly  helping  hand  from  the  chauffeur, 
he  projected  the  limp,  wretched  figure  into  the  cab. 

"A  good  tip,  my  son,  and  drive  smartly,"  he  added, 
after  giving  an  address  in  the  Boulevard  duMont  Parnasse. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  RETURN  OF  THE  NATIVE 

"  WES,  I  have  returned.  I  am  here,  veritably  here, 
chere  Madame  et  amie.  At  last  I  have  effected 
my  escape  from  the  Land  of  Egypt  and  the  House  of 
Bondage — and  such  a  bondage !  Ah !  it  is  an  incredibly 
happy  thing  to  be  back!" 

Adrian  permitted  himself  to  hold  his  hostess's  hand 
some  seconds  longer  than  is  demanded  by  strict  etiquette. 
His  face  was  as  glad  as  a  spring  morning.  Tender  gal- 
lantry lurked  in  his  eyes.  His  voice  had  a  ring  of  joy 
irrepressible.  His  aspect  was  at  once  that  of  suppliant 
and  of  conqueror.  And  this  whole  brilliant  effect  was 
infectious,  finding  readier  and  more  sympathetic  reflec- 
tion in  Madame  St.  Leger's  expression  and  humor  than 
she  at  all  intended  or  bargained  for.  For  the  moment, 
indeed,  the  charm  and  the  rush  of  it  came  near  sweeping 
her  off  her  feet.  She  ceased  to  subscribe  to  theory, 
ceased  to  reason,  yielded  to  spontaneous  feeling,  prac- 
tice claiming  her — the  secular  and  delightful  practice  of 
he  being  man,  she  woman,  and  of  both  being  fearless, 
high-spirited,  beautifully  human,  and  beautifully  young. 

"  In  any  case  the  House  of  Bondage  has  not  disagreed 
with  you,"  she  said,  gaily.  "For  I  have  never  seen  you 
looking  more  admirably  well." 

"Ah!  you  must  not  put  that  down  to  the  credit  of 
the  House  of  Bondage,  but  to  the  fact  of  my  entrancing 
escape  from  it,  to  the  fact  that  once  more  I  am  here — 
here — with  you."  As  he  spoke  Adrian  glanced  round 
the  dear  rose-red-and-canvas-colored  room.     He  wished 

122 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

to  make  sure  that,  in  every  detail,  he  found  it  precisely 
as  he  had  left  it,  every  article  of  furniture,  every  picture, 
every  ornament  in  its  accustomed  position.  He  felt 
jealous  of  the  minutest  change  of  object  or  of  place. 
"No,  nothing  is  altered,  nothing,"  he  said,  answering 
his  own  thought  aloud  in  the  greatness  of  his  content. 

Gabrielle  abstained  from  comment.  She  owned  her- 
self moved,  excited,  uplifted,  by  the  joyful  atmosphere 
which  his  presence  exhaled.  Indeed,  that  presence 
affected  her  far  more  deeply  than  she  had  anticipated, 
catching  her  imagination  and  emotions  as  in  the  dazzling 
meshes  of  a  golden  net.  Some  men  are  gross,  some 
absurd,  some  unspeakably  tedious  when  in  love.  Adrian 
was  very  certainly  neither  of  these  objectionable  things. 
He  struck,  indeed,  an  almost  perfect  note.  And  that 
was  just  where  the  danger  came  in,  just  why  she  dared 
not  let  this  interview  continue  at  the  enthusiastic  level. 
She  might  suffer  the  charm  of  it  too  comprehensively, 
and — for  already  she  began  to  reason  again — that  would 
entail  regret,  and,  only  too  likely,  worse  than  regret. 

So,  steeling  herself  against  the  insidious  charm  which 
so  worked  on  and  quickened  her,  she  moved  away  from 
the  vacant  place  before  the  fire,  where  she  had  been 
standing  with  Adrian  Savage,  sat  down  in  her  high- 
backed,  rose-cushioned  chair  and  picked  up  the  bundle 
of  white  lawn  and  lace  lying  on  the  little  table  beside 
it.  She  needed  protection — whether  from  him  or  from 
herself  she  did  not  quite  care  to  inquire — and  reckoned 
it  wiser  to  put  a  barrier  of  actual  space  and  barrier  of 
sobering  employment  between  herself  and  this  incon- 
veniently moving  returned  guest  and  lover.  She  re- 
fused to  be  taken  by  storm. 

But  Adrian's  buoyancy  of  spirit  was  not  so  easily  to 
be  crushed. 

"Ah!  only  that  was  needed,"  he  declared,  "to  com- 
plete my  satisfaction— that  you  should  place  yourself 
thus  and  shake  out  your  pretty  needlework.  It  pro- 
9  123 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

cures  me  the  welcome  belief  that  no  time  has  really  been 
lost  or  wasted;  it  almost  convinces  me  that  I  have  not 
been  away  at  all.  You  cannot  conceive  what  pleasure, 
what  happiness  it  gives  me,  to  be  here,  to  see  you  again. 
But  now  that  I  am  able  to  observe  you  calmly,  chcre 
Madame — " 

"Yes,  calmly,  calmly,"  she  put  in,  without  raising  her 
eyes  from  her  stitching.  "How  I  value,  how  I  ap- 
preciate calm!" 

"Do  you  not  appear  a  little  tired,  a  little  pale?" 

"Very  possibly,"  she  answered.  "I  have  been 
troubled  about  my  mother  recently.  The  extreme  cold 
affected  her  circulation.  For  some  days  we  were  in 
grave  anxiety.  Her  vitality  is  low.  Indeed,  I  have 
passed  through  some  trying  hours." 

"And  I  was  ignorant  of  her  illness,  ignorant  of  your 
anxiety!     Why  did  you  not  write  and  tell  me?" 

"Does  not  the  difficulty  of  answering  letters  one  has 
never  received  occur  to  you?"  Gabrielle  inquired,  mildly. 
"And  it  was  not  I,  you  know,  who  volunteered  to  write." 

The  young  man  had  drawn  a  chair  up  to  the  near  side  of 
the  little  table.  Now  he  leaned  forward,  his  elbows  on 
his  knees,  both  hands  extended,  as  one  who  offers  a 
petition. 

"Do  not  reproach  me  with  my  silence  or  I  shall  be 
broken-hearted,"  he  said.  "My  inclination  was  to  write 
reams  to  you,  volumes.  I  did,  in  fact,  begin  many 
letters.  But  I  restrained  myself.  I  destroyed  them. 
To  have  sent  them  would  have  been  selfish  and  in- 
discreet. I  was  bound,  by  my  promise  to  you  at  parting, 
not  to  allude  to  the  subject  which  most  vitally  touches 
my  happiness.  And  I  found  over  there  so  much  which 
was  perplexing  and  sad.  I  asked  myself  what  right  I 
had  to  inflict  upon  you  a  recital  of  melancholy  impres- 
sions and  events.  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I 
really  had  none." 

Madame  St.  Leger  looked  at  him  sideways  from  be- 

124 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

tween  half -closed  eyelids.  The  dimple  showed  in  her 
cheek,  but  her  smile  was  distinctly  ironic. 

"Why  not  admit  that  I  was  right  in  foretelling  that 
you  would  find  those  shadowy  ladies,  and  your  mission 
to  them,  of  absorbing  interest  ?  It  occupied  your  time 
and  thoughts  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else — now,  was  it 
not  so?     Was  I  not  right?" 

"Yes  and  no,  chere  Madame,"  he  answered,  presently, 
slowly  and  with  so  perceptible  a  change  of  tone  that  his 
hearer  was  startled  to  the  point  of  finding  it  difficult 
to  go  on  with  her  needlework. 

Adrian  sat  silently  watching  her.  The  singular  char- 
acter of  her  beauty,  both  in  its  subtlety  and  suggestion 
of  a  reserve  of  moral  force,  had  never  been  more  evident 
to  him.  More  than  ever,  in  each  gesture,  in  the  long, 
suave  lines  of  her  body  and  limbs  shrouded  in  clinging 
black,  in  the  gleam  of  her  furrowed  hair  as  she  turned  or 
bent  her  charming  head,  in  the  abiding  provocation  and 
mystery  of  her  eyes  and  lips,  did  she  appear  to  him 
unique  and  infinitely  desirable.  Watching  her,  he  in- 
clined to  become  lyrical  and  cry  aloud  his  worship  in  heroic 
fashion,  careless  of  twentieth-century  decorum  and  re- 
straint. But  if  her  room,  the  material  frame  and  setting 
of  that  beauty,  to  his  immense  content  remained  un- 
changed in  every  particular,  her  attitude  of  mind,  to  his 
immense  discontent,  evidently  remained  unchanged  like- 
wise. In  the  first  surprise  of  his  arrival  she  had  yielded 
somewhat,  catching  alight  from  his  flame.  But  with 
a  determined  hand  she  shut  down  those  sympathetic 
fires,  becoming  obdurate  as  before.  He  could  feel  her 
will  sensibly  stiffening  against  his  own ;  and  this  at  once 
hurt  him  shrewdly  and  whipped  up  passion,  preaching 
a  reckless  war  of  conquest,  bidding  him  disregard 
promises,  bidding  him  speak  and  thunder  down  opposi- 
tion by  sheer  law  of  the  strongest.  In  every  man  worth 
the  name  temptation  must  arise,  at  moments,  to  beat  the 
defiant  beloved  object  into  an  obedient  and  docile  jelly — 

125 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

the  defiant  beloved  object,  it  may  confidently  be  added, 
would  regard  any  man  as  unworthy  of  serious  considera- 
tion did  it  not.  But,  in  Adrian's  case,  sitting  watching 
her  now,  though  such  temptation  did  very  really  arise, 
its  duration  was  brief.  Less  primitive  counsels  pre- 
vailed. She  was  far  from  kind  and  he  was  hotly  in  love; 
but  he  was  also  the  child  of  his  age,  and  a  fine  gentleman 
at  that,  to  whom,  given  time  for  reflection,  berserker 
methods  must  inevitably  present  themselves  as  both  un- 
worthy and  ludicrous.  So,  if  she  condemned  him  to 
play  a  waiting  game,  he  would  bow  to  her  ruling  and 
play  it.  He  had  considerable  capital  of  self-confidence 
to  draw  upon.  In  as  far  as  the  ultimate  issues  were 
concerned  he  wasn't  a  bit  afraid — as  yet.  He  could 
afford,  so  he  believed,  to  wait.  Only,  since  tormenting 
was  about,  all  the  fun  of  that  amiable  pastime  shouldn't 
be  on  her  side.  And  to  this  end  now  he  would  make 
her  speak  first. 

He  remained  silent,  therefore,  still  observing  her,  until 
the  color  deepened  in  the  round  of  her  cheeks,  and  the 
stitches  were  set  less  regularly  in  the  white  work,  while 
uneasiness  gained  on  her  causing  her  presently  to  look 
up. 

"Yes  and  no?"  she  said,  "yes  and  no?  That  is  noth- 
ing of  an  answer.  I  am  all  attention.  I  am  curious 
to  hear  your  explanation.  And  then — yes  and  no — 
what  next?" 

"This,"  he  replied,  "that  on  nearer  acquaintance 
the  two  ladies  proved  anything  but  shadowy.  They 
proved,  in  some  respects,  even  a  little  tremendous. 
Far  from  being  absorbed  in  them,  I  came  alarmingly 
near  being  absorbed  by  them — which  is  a  very  different 
matter." 

"Ah,  that  is  interesting.     You  did  not  like  them?" 

"I  really  cannot  say.  They  both — but  particularly 
the  elder  sister,  my  cousin  Joanna — were  new  to  my 
experience.     I  do  not  feel  that  I  have  even  yet  placed 

126 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

them  in  my  mind.  The  members  of  all  nations  above 
a  certain  social  level  can  meet  on  common  ground.  It 
is  below  that  level  national  tendencies  and  eccentricities 
actually  declare  themselves.  I  went  over,  strong  in  the 
conceit  of  ignorance.  I  supposed  I  knew  all  about  it 
and  should  find  myself  quite  at  home.  I  was  colossally 
mistaken.  The  manners  and  mental  attitude  of  the 
provincial  middle-class  English  were  a  revelation  to  me 
of  the  blighting  effects  of  a  sea  frontier  and  a  Puritan 
descent.  The  men  have  but  three  subjects  of  conversa- 
tion— politics,  games,  and  their  own  importance.  The 
women" — Adrian  paused,  looking  full  at  Madame  St. 
Leger — "I  am  very,  very  sorry  for  the  women.  Ah! 
dear  Madame,"  he  added,  "let  us  return  devout  thanks 
that  we  were  born  on  this  side,  the  humane,  the  ami- 
able, the  artistic  side  of  the  Channel,  you  and  I.  For 
they  are  really  a  very  uncomfortable  people  those 
middle-class  Anglo-Saxons.  Until  I  spent  this  age-long 
three  weeks  among  them  I  had  no  conception  what  a  con- 
vinced Catholic — in  sentiment,  if  not,  to  my  shame, 
altogether  in  practice — and  thorough-paced  Latin  I  was!" 

During  the  above  harangue  Gabrielle's  hands  remained 
idle.  He  was  really  very  good,  meeting  her  thus  half-way 
in  the  suppression  of  the  personal  and  amatory  note.  She 
was  obliged  to  him,  of  course;  yet,  in  honest  truth,  was 
she  so  very  much  pleased  by  his  readiness  to  take  the 
hint?  She  could  not  but  ask  herself  that  — and  then 
hurry  away,  so  to  speak,  from  the  answer,  her  fingers 
in  her  pretty  ears.  His  cue  was  an  intelligent  exchange 
of  ideas  then?  An  excellent  one!— She  stopped  her 
ears  more  resolutely. — She,  too,  would   be   intelligent. 

"Increased  faith  and  increased  patriotism  as  the  re- 
sult of  your  journey!  How  admirable!  Clearly  it  is 
highly  beneficial  to  one's  morale  to  cross  the  Channel. 
Were  it  rather  later  in  the  year,  and  were  the  weather  less 
inclement,  I  should  be  disposed  to  take  the  little  cure, 
without  delay,  myself." 

127 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"It  would  not  suit  you  in  the  least,"  Adrian  asserted. 
"You  would  dislike  it  all  quite  enormously." 

Gabrielle  St.  Leger  at  the  Tower  House !  The  idea  pro- 
duced in  him  a  violent  unreasoning  repulsion,  as  though 
she  ran  some  actual  physical  danger.     Heaven  forbid! 

"  I  should  not  go  with  any  purpose  of  enjoyment,  but 
rather  as  a  penance,  hoping  the  dislike  of  what  I  found 
over  there  might  heighten  my  appreciation  of  all  my 
blessings  here  at  home." 

Whereupon  Adrian,  careless  of  diplomacy,  clutched 
at  his  chance. 

"Then  you  are  not  so  entirely  satisfied,  chere  Madame 
et  amie,"  he  cried,  laughing  a  little  in  his  eagerness, 
"not  so  utterly  happy  and  content!" 

"  Is  one  ever  as  devout,  ever  as  patriotic,  as  one  ought 
to  be?"  she  asked,  gravely. 

"Or  as  sincere?"  he  returned,  with  corresponding 
gravity. 

The  hot  color  deepened  in  the  young  woman's  face, 
and  she  picked  up  her  needlework  again  quickly. 

"I — insincere?"  she  asked.  "Is  not  that  precisely 
why  you  find  me  slightly  vexatious,  my  dear  Mr.  Savage, 
that  I  am  only  too  sincere,  a  veritable  model  of  sin- 
cerity?" 

And  she  rose,  gracious,  smiling,  to  receive  another 
guest. 

"Ah!  ma  toute  belle,  how  are  you,  and  how  is  the  poor, 
darling  mother?  Better?  Thank  God  for  that!  But 
still  in  her  room?  Dear!  dear!  Yet,  after  all,  what  can 
one  expect  ?  In  such  weather  convalescence  must  neces- 
sarily be  protracted.  I  am  forced  to  come  and  ask  for 
news  in  person  since  you  refuse  to  have  a  telephone. 
Just  consider  the  many  annoying  intrusions,  such  as 
the  present,  which  that  useful  instrument  would  spare 
you!" 

Anastasia  Beauchamp,  overdressed  and  genial  as  ever, 
interspersed  these  remarks  with  the  unwinding  of  volu- 

128 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

minous  fox  furs,  all  heads  and  tails  and  feebly  dangling 
paws,  the  kissing  of  her  hostess  on  either  cheek,  and 
finally  a  hand-shake  to  Adrian. 

"So  you  are  restored  to  us,  my  dear  Savage,"  she 
continued.  "  I  am  more  than  delighted  to  see  you, 
though  at  this  moment  I  am  well  aware  that  delight  is 
not  reciprocated. — There,  there,  it  is  superfluous  to  per- 
jure yourself  by  a  denial. — And  you  are  back  just  in  time 
to  write  a  scathing  criticism  of  your  protege  M.  Dax's 
exhibition,  in  the  Review.  Here  is  matter  for  sincere 
congratulation,  for,  believe  me,  very  plain  speaking  is 
demanded.  The  newspapers  are  afraid  of  him.  They 
cringe.  Their  pusillanimity  is  disgusting.  Really  this 
time  he  has  broken  his  own  record!  It  is  just  these 
things  which  create  a  wrong  impression  and  bring 
France  into  bad  odor  with  other  nations.  He  is  a 
traitor  to  the  best  traditions  of  the  art  of  this  country. 
I  deplore  it  from  that  point  of  view.  His  exhibition 
is  a  scandal.     The  correctional  police  should  step  in." 

"You  have  yourself  visited  the  exhibition,  dear  An- 
astasia?"  Madame  St.  Leger  inquired,  demurely. 

"  Naturally,  I  have  been  to  see  it.  Don't  I  see  every- 
thing which  is  going  ?  Isn't  that  my  acknowledged  little 
hobby,  my  dear  ?  Then,  too,  where  does  the  benefit  of 
increasing  age  come  in  unless  you  claim  the  privileges 
of  indiscretion  conferred  by  it  ?  Still,  even  in  senile  in- 
discretion, one  should  observe  a  decent  limit.  I  went 
alone,  absolutely  alone,  to  inspect  those  abominable  pro- 
ductions. I  wore  a  thick  veil,  too,  and — I  blushed  be- 
hind it.  Needless  to  relate,  I  now  and  then  quivered  with 
laughter.  One  is  but  human  after  all,  and  to  be  human 
is  also  to  be  diverted  by  impropriety.  But  I  could  have 
whipped  myself  for  laughing,  even  though  quite  alone 
and  behind  the  veil.  Go  and  judge  for  yourself  whether 
I  am  not  justified  in  my  disgust,  my  dear  Savage.  And 
as  for  you,  ma  toute  belle,  do  not,  I  implore  you,  go  at 
all — unless  you  have  had  the  misfortune  to  do  so  already 

129 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

— even  though  going  would  effectually  cure  you  of  any 
kindness  you  may  entertain  toward  the  artist — an  end, 
in  my  poor  opinion,  greatly  to  be  desired." 

"  I  have  not  seen  M.  Dax's  exhibition,  nor  have  I  seen 
M.  Dax  himself  for  some  length  of  time,"  Gabrielle  re- 
marked, quietly. 

"You  have  dropped  him?  I  rejoice  to  hear  it.  A 
man  of  so  villainous  an  imagination  is  unfit  to  approach 
you." 

"I  will  not  say  that  I  have  dropped  him."  As  she 
spoke  she  was  aware  that  Adrian  looked  keenly,  inquir- 
ingly at  her.  And  this  displeased  her,  as  an  intrusion 
upon  her  liberty  of  action.  "M.  Dax  has  a  charming 
devotion  to  my  little  Bette,"  she  continued.  "No  one 
whom  I  know  is  so  perfect  a  playfellow  to  children. 
His  sympathy  with  them  is  extraordinary.  He  under- 
stands their  tastes  and  pleasures,  and  is  unwearied  in 
his  kindness  to  them.  Only,  perhaps,  his  games  are  a 
little  overstimulating,  overexciting.  After  his  last  visit 
my  poor  Bette  suffered  from  agitating  dreams  and  awoke 
in  the  night  frightened  and  crying.  I  had  difficulty  in 
soothing  her." 

"Praiseworthy  babe,  how  profoundly  right  are  her 
instincts!"  Miss  Beauchamp  declared,  fervently.  "But, 
Heaven  help  us,  what's  this!"  she  added,  under  her 
breath.  "Perfidious  infant,  how  these  praiseworthy 
babies  can  fool  one!" 

She  nodded  and  beckoned  to  Adrian,  still  speaking 
under  her  breath. 

"As  you  value  my  friendship,  don't  go,  on  no  account 
go,  my  dear  Savage.  Come  and  sit  here  by  me  and  tell 
me  about  your  time  in  England.  Like  the  chivalrous 
young  man  you  are,  stick  to  me.  Supply  me  with  a 
valid  excuse  for  remaining.  For,  manners  or  no  man- 
ners, I  am  resolved  not  to  leave  her  alone  with  that  de- 
praved little  horror.     I  am  resolved  to  outstay  him." 


CHAPTER  III 

A    STRAINING    OP    FRIENDSHIP 

BETTE,  light-footed,  sprightly,  in  beaver  cap, 
pelisse,  and  muff,  brown  cloth  gaiters  and  boots  to 
match,  her  face  pink  from  air  and  exercise,  her  eyes  wide 
and  bright  with  consciousness  of  temerity,  spricketed 
toward  her  mother,  leading  Rene"  Dax  by  the  hand. 
•  "I  found  him  outside  in  the  courtyard  as  I  returned 
from  my  walk  with  my  little  friends,"  she  piped,  the 
words  tumbling  over  one  another  in  her  pretty  haste. 
"  He  told  me  that  he  wished  so  much  to  see  us,  but  that 
he  never  found  us  at  home  now.  And  he  looked  un- 
happy. You  have  always  instructed  me  that  it  is  our 
duty  to  console  the  unhappy.  So  I  informed  him  that  I 
knew  you  were  at  home  to-day,  because  you  would  not 
leave  my  grandmother,  and  I  assured  him  that,  speaking 
in  your  name,  it  would  give  us  much  pleasure  to  receive 
him.  And  then  I  invited  him  to  come  up-stairs  with 
me.  And  that  was  all  quite  proper,  wasn't  it,  mamma, 
because  we  do  not  like  him  to  be  unhappy,  and  it  does 
give  us  pleasure  to  receive  M.  Dax,  does  it  not?" 

"Assuredly  it  gives  us  pleasure  to  receive  M.  Dax," 
Gabrielle  said,  her  head  carried  high  and  a  just  per- 
ceptible ring  of  defiance  in  her  voice. 

She  smiled  graciously  upon  the  young  man,  and  for  an 
instant  the  three  stood  hand  in  hand — Rene  Dax,  the 
Tadpole,  offering  the  very  strangest  of  connecting  links 
between  the  beautiful  mother  and  delicious  little  girl. 

Miss  Beauchamp  uttered  a  sharp  exclamation,  which 
she  vainly  attempted  to  mask  by  a  cough.     Adrian 

131 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Savage  looked,  saw,  and  turned  his  back.  He  stared 
blindly  out  of  window  at  Paris  beneath,  sparkling  in  the 
keen-edged  February  sunshine.  The  sweat  broke  out 
on  his  forehead.  He  had  received  an  agonizing,  a  hateful 
impression,  amounting,  sound  and  self-confident  though 
he  was,  to  acute  physical  pain.  "  No,  not  that,  not  that," 
he  cried  to  himself.  "Of  all  conceivable  combinations, 
not  that  one.     It  is  hideous,  unbearable,  out  of  nature!" 

Miss  Beauchamp  touched  him  on  the  arm.  Her  face 
spoke  volumes. 

"Talk  to  me,  my  dear  Savage,"  she  said,  urgently. 
"  I  can  imagine  what  you  feel.  But  talk.  Create  some, 
any  excuse  for  staying,  and  take  It,  that  depraved  little 
horror,  away  with  you  when  you  go.  Rally  your  re- 
sources, my  dear  friend.  Play  up,  I  entreat  you,  play 
up." 

Then  louder. 

"You  had  a  deplorable  crossing — fog,  coming  into 
Calais?  Yes,  February  is  among  the  most  odious 
months  of  the  year.  But  I  go  over  so  seldom  now,  you 
know,  since  my  poor  brother's  death.  Nearly  all  my 
friends  are  on  this  side;  and,  after  all,  one  only  has  to 
wait.  Everybody  who  is  anybody  must  pass  through 
Paris  sooner  or  later. — Talk,  my  dear  Savage,  talk. 
Support  me. — Ah  yes,  in  London  you  observed  many 
changes?  I  hear  a  mania  has  taken  the  authorities 
lately  for  improvements.  You  did  not  stay  in  town? 
Ah  no,  of  course  not.  Stourmouth? — Yes,  I  remember 
the  place  vaguely.  Interminable  black  fir-trees  and 
interminable,  perambulating  pink-and-white  consump- 
tives— I  like  neither.  Yes,  talk — talk — my  own  re- 
marks are  abysmal  in  their  fatuity.  But  no  matter. 
It's  all  in  a  good  cause.     Let  us  keep  on." 

Rend,  meanwhile,  successfully  affected  ignorance  of 
any  human  presences  save  those  of  his  hostess  and  his 
little  guide. 

"Why  have  you  refused  me?  Why  have  you  never 
132 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

let  me  see  you  ?"  he  asked,  gazing  mournfully  at  Madame 
St.  Leger. 

"I  have  not  been  receiving,"  she  replied.  "My 
mother  has  been  ailing,  and  my  time  has  been  devoted 
to  her." 

"  But  to  see  me,  even  to  be  aware  that  I  was  near  her, 
would  have  done  her  good,"  he  returned.  "She  has  a 
great  regard  for  me;  and,  in  the  case  of  a  sensitive 
organization,  the  proximity  of  a  person  to  whom  one  is 
attached  acts  as  a  restorative.  It  was  on  that  account 
I  have  needed  to  come  here.  I,  too,  have  been  ailing. 
My  exhibition  is  a  howling  success.  Being  a  person  of  re- 
finement, this  naturally  has  disagreed  with  me,  inducing 
repeated  fits  of  the  spleen,  flooring  me  with  a  dumb 
rage  of  melancholy.  As  a  corrective  I  required  the 
soothing  society  of  Madame,  your  mother,  and  of 
Mademoiselle  Bette.  I  required  also  to  be  with  you, 
Madame,  to  look  at  you.  This  I  believed  would  prove 
beneficial  to  my  nerves,  lacerated  by  frenzied  public 
admiration.  By  excluding  me,  you  have  not  only 
wounded  my  susceptibilities,  but  prolonged  my  ill  health. 
As  I  have  already  proved  to  you,  Madame  Vernois's  re- 
grettable illness  is  no  sufficient  reason  for  that  exclusion. 
There  must  have  been  some  further  reason." 

"There  was  a  further  reason,"  Gabrielle  replied, 
quietly. 

Rend  gazed  up  at  her,  a  point  of  flame  in  his  somber 
eyes.  All  of  a  sudden,  with  an  amazingly  quick,  very 
vulgar,  street-boy  gesture  and  a  wicked  grimace,  tipping 
his  thumb  over  his  shoulder,  he  indicated  the  other  two 
guests  holding  uneasy  converse  at  the  other  side  of  the 
room.  The  thing  was  done  in  a  twinkling,  and  he  re- 
gained his  accustomed  plaintive  solemnity  of  aspect. 

"What  further  reason,  that  he,  the  janitor,  otherwise 
Adrian  the  Magnificent,  was  away?" 

"  You  are  impertinent,"  Madame  St.  Leger  said,  stern- 
ly.    At  first  her  anger  concentrated  itself  upon  Rend 

133 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Dax.  Then,  quite  arbitrarily  and  unjustly,  it  took  a 
wider  sweep.  She  called  Bette  to  her;  and,  kneeling 
down,  the  train  of  her  dress  trailing  out  across  the  rosy 
carpet,  her  head  bowed,  began  undoing  the  frogs  of  the 
child's  fur  pelisse. 

"Pray  understand,"  she  said,  still  sternly,  "Mr. 
Savage's  presence  or  absence  is  a  matter  which  in  no 
degree  affects  my  actions." 

While  in  the  pause  which  followed  Adrian's  voice, 
harsh  from  his  effort  to  make  it  sound  quite  disengaged 
and  natural,  asserted  itself  forcibly. 

"Yes,"  he  was  saying,  "Colonel  Rentoul  Haig. — You 
cannot  surely  have  been  so  heartless  as  to  have  forgotten 
his  existence,  dear  Miss  Beauchamp,  when  he  retains 
such  enthusiastic  memories  of  you  and  of  the  brilliancy 
of  your  conversation?" 

"Rentoul  Haig?  Rentoul  Haig?  Ah!  to  be  sure!  I 
have  it  at  last.  Yes,  certainly,  in  the  early  eighties,  at 
my  cousin  Delamere  Beauchamp's  place  in  Midland- 
shire.  Of  course,  of  course — a  neat,  little,  tea-party  sub- 
altern, out  in  camp  with  some  militia  regiment,  in 
general  request  for  answering  questions  and  running 
messages,  and  so  on;  qualifying,  even  then,  as  a  walking 
hand-book  of  the  English  landed  and  titled  gentry." 

"He  has  continued  in  that  line  until  his  genealogical 
learning  has  reached  truly  monumental  proportions," 
Adrian  returned,  in  the  same  harsh  voice.  "It  pos- 
sesses and  obsesses  him,  keeping  him  in  a  perpetual  fer- 
ment of  apprehension  lest  he  should  be  called  upon  to 
associate  with  persons  of  no  family  in  particular.  In 
this  connection  my  arrival,  I  fear,  caused  him  cruel 
searchings  of  heart.  His  mother  and  my  father  were 
hundredth  cousins.  Hence,  alarms.  Should  I  prove 
presentable  to  the  funny  old  gentlemen  at  the  local  club, 
or  should  I  compromise  him?  He  has  hardly  marched 
with  the  times,  and  pictured  me — this  I  learned  from  his 
own   ingenuous  lips — as  some  long-haired,  threadbare, 

U4 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

starveling  Bohemian,  straight  out  of  the  pages  of  Henri 
Miirger  or  Eugene  Sue.  My  personal  appearance  did, 
I  rejoice  to  say,  reassure  him  to  a  certain  extent.  But 
your  name,  and  recollections  both  of  your  cousin's  fine 
place  and  of  your  own  conversational  powers,  did  much 
more  toward  allaying  the  torment  of  his  social  sense.  He 
ended,  indeed,  by  conveying  to  me  that,  my  beloved 
mother's  alien  nationality  and  my  beloved  father's  pro- 
fession notwithstanding,  I  was  really  quite  a  credit  to  the 
united  houses  of  Savage  and  Haig." 

"Are  you  going  again  to  exclude  me,  are  you  going  to 
shut  the  door  on  me,  because  I  have  been  that  which  you 
qualify  by  the  word  'impertinent'?"  Rene*  Dax  asked, 
softly  and  sadly,  as  Madame  St.  Leger — the  little  girl's 
coat  removed  and  her  frilled  white  skirts  straightened 
out — rose  proudly  to  her  feet. 

"You  richly  deserve  that  I  should  do  so,"  she  re- 
plied. 

"Ah!  pardon — but  just  consider.  For  to  be  cross 
with  me,  to  repudiate  me,  is  so  conspicuously  useless.  It 
only  serves  to  accentuate  my  faults — always  supposing  I 
really  have  any.  I  am  controlled,  I  am  led,  by  kindness, 
and  I  possess  most  engaging  qualities.  In  the  interests 
of  all  concerned  you  should  encourage  the  display  of 
those  qualities." 

"Pray  do  not  be  severe  with  M.  Dax  any  more,"  little 
Bette  put  in,  prettily  and  busily.  "  You  have,  perhaps, 
dear  mamma,  been  so  on  my  account,  therefore  it  is  for 
me  to  plead  with  you." 

Madame  St.  Leger's  expression  softened.  The  Tadpole, 
his  big  overdeveloped  brain  and  puny  body,  touched 
the  springs  of  maternal  compassion  in  her,  somehow. 
She  glanced  at  him.  Surely  she  had  exaggerated  the  dis- 
turbing influences  which  could  be  exercised  by  so  quaint 
and  relatively  insignificant  a  creature?  Then,  stooping 
down,  she  took  little  Bette  up  in  her  arms,  smiling,  her 
figure  finely  poised,  both  in  lifting  and  bearing  the  weight 

135 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

of  that  graceful  burden.  In  an  ecstasy  of  affection  the 
child  snuggled  against  her,  cheek  to  cheek. 

"I  am  no  longer  afraid  of  his  little  walking-cane," 
Bette  murmured,  in  a  confidential  whisper.  "That  was 
a  silly  dream.  I  assure  you  I  shall  not  allow  it  to 
trouble  me,  should  it  repeat  itself.  So  I  entreat  you, 
mamma,  tell  M.  Dax  he  may  come  here  again  and  play 
with  me  and  my  little  friends  as  he  used  to  do." 

Gabrielle's  smile  sweetened  to  a  tender  merriment. 
With  her  child  pressed  close  against  her,  thus,  she  felt 
so  satisfied,  so  secure  in  the  strong,  pure  joys  of  her 
motherhood,  that  she  gave  caution  the  slip.  So  safe- 
guarded, what,  she  asked  herself,  could  disquiet  her 
soul  or  harm  her?  Rene"  Dax  was  right,  moreover, 
in  saying  he  possessed  engaging  qualities  —  though  it 
mightn't  be  the  best  taste  in  the  world  that  he,  himself, 
should  announce  the  fact.  What  a  good  work,  then,  to 
nurture  those  qualities,  and,  by  keeping  them  in  play, 
strengthen  and  redeem  all  that  was  best  in  the  young 
man's  complex  and  wayward  nature!  A  quite  mission- 
ary spirit,  toward  the  singular  Tadpole,  arose  in  her. 
And  something  further — though  this  she  did  not  will- 
ingly acknowledge — namely,  a  hot  desire  to  assert  the 
completeness  of  her  personal  liberty  before  witnesses 
just  now  present.  She  would  conserve  her  freedom,  and 
demonstrate  unequivocally  to  present  company  that  she 
intended  so  doing. 

"Good,  most  precious  one,"  she  said,  returning  the 
child's  fluttering  kisses.  Then:  " Since  my  little  daugh- 
ter wishes  it,  the  door  shall  remain  open,  M.  Dax." 

But  here  Adrian  Savage,  partially  overhearing  the  con- 
versation, partially  divining  that  purpose  of  demonstra- 
tion, smitten,  moreover,  by  Madame  St.  Leger's  resolved 
and  exalted  aspect,  was  overcome  by  alarm  and  distress 
altogether  too  acute  for  further  concealment.  Miss 
Beauchamp  might  wave  her  long,  thin  arms,  and  pour 
forth  cascades  of  transparently  artificial  conversation 

136 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

in  the  effort  to  delay  his  departure,  but  he  could  bear  the 
position  no  longer.  She,  after  all,  was  actuated  by  mo- 
tives of  social  expediency  and  of  friendship  only,  was 
merely  an  onlooker  at  this  drama,  while  he  was  a  prin- 
cipal actor  in  it,  all  his  dearest  hopes,  all  his  future  hap- 
piness at  stake.  He  had  reached  the  limits  of  moral  and 
emotional  endurance.  His  handsome  face  was  drawn 
and  blanched  to  an  unnatural  pallor  as  against  his  black, 
pointed  beard,  black  eyebrows,  and  dark,  close-cropped 
hair.  A  few  moments  more  and  he  felt  he  might  be 
guilty  of  some  irretrievable  breach  of  good  manners, 
might  make  a  scene,  commit  some  unpardonable  folly 
of  speech  and  action,  or  that  just  simply  he  might  col- 
lapse, might  faint.  So,  then  and  there,  he  bounded  tiger- 
like, so  to  speak,  into  the  open  space  before  the  fire 
where  his  hostess  still  stood,  addressing  her  rapidly,  im- 
peratively, wholly  ignoring  her  companion,  Rene*  Dax. 

"  Pardon  me,  Madame,  that  I  interrupt  you,  but  I  have 
already,  as  I  fear,  greatly  outstayed  your  patience  and 
will  delay  no  further  to  bid  you  good-by.  My  excuse, 
both  for  coming  to-day  and  for  remaining  so  long,  must 
be  that  I  am  here,  in  Paris,  probably  for  but  a  few  days 
on  the  business  of  the  Review.  I  may  be  recalled  to 
England  at  any  moment,  and  it  is  conceivable  in  the  press 
of  work  which  demands  my  attention  that  I  may  not 
have  another  opportunity  of  presenting  myself  to  you 
before  I  go." 

"Behold  Vesuvius  in  full  eruption,"  Rene"  murmured, 
gazing  pensively  at  his  hostess. 

The  latter  had  stood  little  Bette  down  on  the  seat  of 
the  rose-cushioned  chair.  She  still  held  the  child  close, 
one  arm  round  her  waist.  The  unaccustomed  tones  of 
Adrian's  voice,  his  vehemence,  and  air  of  unmistakable 
suffering,  agitated  her.  Was  it  the  price  of  her  inde- 
pendence to  hurt  a  faithful  friend  so  sorely  as  all  this? 

"  I  was  unaware  you  were  likely  to  leave  Paris  again  so 
soon,"  she  said.     "  I  supposed  you  had  returned  for  good ; 

137 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

and  there  is  so  much  that  I  wished  to  hear,  so  much  that 
I  had  promised  myself  the  entertainment  of  having  you 
recount  to  me." 

"Unfortunately  the  claims  of  my  venerable  cousin's 
affairs  are  inexorable,"  Adrian  replied,  with  a  not  very 
successful  attempt  at  lightness,  looking  her  in  the  eyes 
while  his  lips  perceptibly  shook.  "  In  death,  as  in  life, 
he  has  proved  himself  an  unscrupulously  devouring  old 
tyrant.  Indeed,  I  am  quite  unable  to  forecast,  as  yet, 
when  I  shall  escape  out  of  the  house  of  bondage  for 
good." 

"Mamma,  dearest,"  little  Bette  whispered,  politely, 
"I  like  it  of  course,  but  you  will  excuse  me  if  I  mention 
that  you  are  squeezing  me  so  very  tight?" 

And  thereupon,  somehow,  Gabrielle's  gentler  mood 
evaporated.  She  ceased  to  be  touched  by  the  young 
man's  troubled  aspect,  or  to  regret  her  share  in  the  pro- 
duction of  that  trouble.  She  felt  angry,  though  not  very 
certainly  with  innocent  Bette.  Mockery  supplanted  con- 
cern in  the  expression  of  her  beautiful  face  as  she  gave 
her  hand  to  her  unhappy  lover. 

"In  time  the  arrangement  of  even  the  richest  suc- 
cession must  be  terminated.  When  that  termination  is 
reached  we  shall  hope  to  welcome  you  back,  Mr.  Savage 
— unless,  of  course,  you  have  any  thought  of  forming  ties 
which  will  necessitate  your  settling  permanently  in 
England?" 

And,  before  Adrian  had  either  time  or  heart  to  parry 
this  cruel  thrust,  Rene  intervened,  patting  him  delicately 
on  the  back. 

"  So  you  are  going,  mon  vieuxt  See,  I  will  accompany 
you.  No,  no — indeed,  I  gladly  go  with  you,  leaving 
Mademoiselle  Beauchamp — who  detests  me — as  she  so 
earnestly  desires,  in  possession  of  the  field  of  battle. 
Why  should  I  not  go,  my  dear  fellow?  You  do  not 
hurry  my  departure  in  the  least.  I  have  accomplished 
the  object  of  my  visit.     I  am  restored,  soothed    com- 

138 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

forted.  I  have  got  all — all  that,  for  the  moment,  I 
want." 

As  the  door  closed  behind  the  two  young  men  Anas- 
tasia  advanced.  She  re-adjusted  her  frisky  hat,  pulled 
her  long  gloves  up  at  the  elbow,  cast  the  heads  and  tails 
and  feebly  dangling  paws  of  her  fox  furs  about  her  neck 
and  shoulders. 

"Ma  toute  belle,  at  the  risk  of  your  being  angry  and 
requesting  me  to  mind  my  own  business,  I  am  con- 
strained to  tell  you  that  I  fear  you  are  committing  a 
very  grave  folly,"  she  said. 

But  Madame  St.  Leger  was  engaged  in  caressing  little 
Bette. 

"My  poor  angel,  did  I  hurt  you?"  she  asked.  "For- 
give me.  I  am  ten  thousand  times  sorry. — A  grave  folly, 
dear  Anastasia?  Ah  no,  believe  me,  you  are  altogether 
on  the  wrong  tack.  I  have  just  successfully  avoided 
committing  one.  It  was  the  nearest  thing,  I  grant.  I 
trembled  on  the  very  brink.-  But  all  is  well.  I  have 
avoided  it — yes,  most  distinctly  I  have." 

10 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN     WHICH     ADRIAN     SETS     FORTH     IN     PURSUIT     OF     THE 
FURTHER    REASON 

COMING  from  under  the  porte-cochere  into  the  street, 
Adrian,  pleading  a  business  appointment  as  excuse, 
shook  off  his  companion  somewhat  unceremoniously,  and 
hailing  the  first  empty  motor-cab,  sped  away  to  the 
office,  his  Review,  in  the  rue  Druot.  The  rush  across  the 
center  of  Paris,  through  the  thick  of  the  afternoon 
traffic,  with  its  lively  chances  of  smashing  or  being 
smashed,  served  to  steady  him.  Yet  he  was  still  under 
the  empire  of  considerable  emotion  when  he  entered 
his  private  room  at  the  office,  and  Emile  Konski,  his 
secretary,  a  roundabout,  pink-cheeked,  gray-headed, 
alert  little  man  of  fifty,  arose  bowing  and  beaming  to 
relieve  him  of  hat,  coat,  and  umbrella. 

"Thanks,  thanks,  my  good  Konski,"  he  said.  "And 
now  just  arrange  the  copy  I  have  to  revise,  will  you 
kindly,  and  take  your  own  work  into  the  outer  office. 
I  am  rather  hurried.  I  will  call  through  to  you  should 
I  want  you." 

"  Perfectly,  sir,"  the  good  Konski  returned,  obediently; 
but  he  beamed  no  more.  His  employer  was  also  the  god 
of  his  ingenuous  idolatry,  and  to  leave  the  private  room 
for  the  outer  office  was  to  leave  the  Sanctuary  for  the 
Court  of  the  Gentiles.  Opportunities  of  devotion  had 
been  limited  lately,  hence  banishment  became  the  more 
grievous. 

Once  alone,  Adrian  sat  down  before  his  writing-table. 
The  fortnightly  chronique  of  home  and  foreign  politics 

140 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

awaited  his  revision,  so  did  literary  and  art  notices. 
Among  the  latter  a  critique  of  Rene"  Dax's  picture- 
show  remained  to  be  written,  Adrian  having  expressed 
an  intention  of  dealing  with  it  himself.  He  meant  to 
have  passed  an  hour  in  the  galleries  after  calling  upon 
Madame  St.  Leger  this  afternoon,  but  had  relinquished 
his  purpose.  For  he  desired  rightly  to  divide  the  word 
of  truth  regarding  Rene's  eccentric  performances;  and 
just  now,  for  reasons  quite  independent  of  their  inherent 
merits  or  demerits,  he  feared  they  might  stink  in  his 
nostrils  to  a  degree  subversive  of  any  just  exercise  of 
the  critical  faculty. 

He  made  an  honest  effort  to  settle  to  work  and  absorb 
himself  in  the  affairs  of  Morocco,  the  last  new  books,  the 
last  debates  in  the  Chamber.  But  the  neatly  typed 
words  and  sentences  proved  singularly  lacking  in  interest 
or  meaning.  He  read  them  over  and  over  again,  only  to 
find  them  crumble  into  purposeless  units,  like  so  much 
dry  sand,  incapable  of  cohesion.  For  what  mattered — 
so,  in  a  crisis,  is  even  the  cleverest  of  us  dominated  by 
personal  feeling — what  mattered  the  future  of  Morocco, 
for  instance,  though  involving  possibilities  of  war  to  all 
Europe,  as  against  the  future  of  himself,  Adrian  Savage  ? 

And  that  future  did,  unquestionably,  present  itself  just 
now  as  lamentably  parlous.  That  he  might  fail,  that 
Madame  St.  Leger  might  eventually  and  finally  refuse  to 
marry  him,  had  never  really  seriously  entered  his  head 
before.  That  he  might  have  to  diplomatize,  to  lay  long 
and  patient  siege  to  the  enchanting  and  enchanted  be- 
leaguered city  before  it  fell  he  had  long  ago  accepted; 
but  that,  in  the  end,  it  would  most  assuredly  fall  and 
he  rapturously  claim  it  by  right  of  conquest,  in  his 
triumphant  masculine  optimism  he  had  never,  till  this 
afternoon,  doubted.  Now  the  doubt  did  very  really 
present  itself  and  proved  a  staggering  one.  Nor  was 
this  all.  For,  save  during  those  first  few  delicious 
moments  of  greeting   he   had   been   sensible  of  a  sin- 

141 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

ister  element  battling  against  him,  painfully  affecting 
him,  yet  which  he  failed  to  define  or  to  grasp. 

Adrian  stared  at  the  copy  outspread  on  his  blotting- 
pad,  and  its  blank,  unmeaning  sentences.  Never  before 
had  he  realized  what  a  terrible,  imprisoning,  stultifying 
thing  it  maybe  to  love!  Morocco?  Morocco?  What, 
in  the  name  of  all  which  makes  a  man's  life  worth  living, 
did  he  care  about  the  fate  of  that  forbidding  North 
African  coast?  Let  it  stew  in  its  own  barbarous  juice! 
All  the  same,  his  inability  to  concentrate  his  attention 
upon  the  subject  of  that  disagreeable  country  served  to 
increase  his  perturbation  and  distress.  Thanks  to  ad- 
mirable physical  health,  he  was  accustomed  to  have  his 
faculties  thoroughly  and  immediately  at  command,  and 
this  refusal  of  his  brain  to  work  to  order  fairly  in- 
furiated him. 

There  was  the  critique  of  Rene  Dax's  picture-show  to 
be  written,  too ! 

Adrian  rose  from  the  table  and  walked  restlessly,  al- 
most distractedly,  about  the  room.  For  where  exactly, 
in  respect  of  the  resistance  of  that  beloved  beleaguered 
city,  did  Rene*  come  in  ?  Oh !  that  Tadpole  of  perverted 
genius,  that  perniciously  clever  Tadpole,  who  from  child- 
hood he  had  protected  and  befriended,  whose  fortunes 
he  had  so  assiduously  pushed !  And  again  now,  as  when 
staring  forth  blindly  from  the  high-set  windows  of  la 
belle  Gabrielle's  thrice-sacred  drawing-room  at  Paris, 
glittering  in  the  sharp-edged  sunshine,  Adrian's  whole 
being  cried  aloud  against  the  blasphemy  of  a  certain 
conceivable,  yet  inconceivable,  combination  in  a  pas- 
sionate, agonized  "God  forbid!" 

But  verbal  protest  against  that  combination,  how- 
ever loud-voiced  and  vehement,  ranging  ineffectually 
within  the  narrow  confines  of  his  office,  was  a  trans- 
parently inadequate  mode  of  self  -  expression.  His 
native  impetuosity  rendered  uncertainty  and  suspense 
intolerable  to  him.     He  must  act,  must  make  a  recon- 

142 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

naissance,  must  discover  some  means  of  ascertaining 
whether  anything  had  occurred  during  his  absence 
which  served  to  explain  the  apparently  existing  situa- 
tion. But,  here,  the  intrinsic  delicacy  of  the  said  situa- 
tion asserted  itself;  since  precisely  those  questions  to 
which  an  answer  is  most  urgently  needed  are  the  ques- 
tions which  a  person  of  fine  feeling  cannot  ask.  Good 
breeding,  sensibility,  a  chivalrous  regard  for  the  feelings 
of  others  are,  as  he  reflected,  at  times  a  quite  abomi- 
nable handicap. 

He  sat  down  once  again  at  the  writing-table.  What 
should  he  do  ?  At  his  elbow  stood  the  ebonized  upright 
of  the  telephone,  the  long,  green,  silk-covered  wire  of  it 
trailing  away  across  the  parquet  floor  to  the  plug  in 
the  wainscot.  From  a  man  he  could  not  ask  advice 
or  information.  But  from  a  woman — surely  it  was 
different,  permissible  ?  Adrian  left  off  pulling  the  ends 
of  his  upturned  mustache  and  meditated.  Distrac- 
tion slightly  lifted  and  lessened.  He  looked  up  an  ad- 
dress in  the  directory ;  and,  after  an  at  first  polite  then 
slightly  acrimonious  parley  with  the  opera  cor  at  the 
exchange,  got  into  communication  with  the  person 
wanted.  Would  she  be  at  home  to-night  after  dinner, 
say  about  eight  forty-five?  Might  he  call?  And,  with 
multiplied  apologies,  might  he  depend  upon  finding  her 
alone?  To  these  questions  the  replies  proved  satis- 
factory, so  that,  in  a  degree  solaced,  his  thirst  for  im- 
mediate action  in  a  measure  appeased  and  his  scat- 
tered wits  consequently  once  more  fairly  at  command, 
Adrian  resolutely  turned  his  attention  to  the  affairs  of 
neglected  Morocco. 

As  to  Rene"  Dax's  exhibition  ?  Well,  till  to-morrow, 
at  all  events,  it  must  wait. 

Ever  since  he  could  remember,  Miss  Beauchamp  had 
occupied  the  same  handsome,  second-floor  flat  in  a  quiet 
street  just  off  the  Pare  Monceau.  Adrian  recalled  a 
visit,  in  company  with  his  mother,  made  to  her  there 

M3 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

at  a  period  when  he  still  wore  white  frilled  drawers 
and  long-waisted  holland  tunics.  Later,  during  his 
early  school-days,  he  vaguely  recollected  a  period  during 
which  his  grandmother  rarely  mentioned  Anastasia,  and 
then  with  a  suggestive  pursing  up  of  the  lips  and  lift 
of  the  eyebrows.  Afterward  he  came  to  know  how, 
for  some  years,  Miss  Beauchamp's  name  had  been 
rather  conspicuously  associated  with  that  of  a  certain 
famous  Hungarian  composer  resident  in  Paris.  But  the 
said  composer  had  long  since  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh, 
and  the  question  as  to  whether  his  and  Anastasia 's  friend- 
ship was,  or  was  not,  strictly  platonic  in  character  had 
long  since  ceased  to  interest  society.  Other  stars  rose  and 
set  in  the  musical  firmament.  Other  scandals,  real  or 
imaginary,  offered  food  for  discussion  to  those  greedy  of 
such  fly-blown  provender.  Miss  Beauchamp,  mean- 
while, had  become  an  institution;  was  received — as  the 
phrase  goes — everywhere.  Report  declared  her  rich. 
Her  generosity  to  young  musicians,  artists,  and  literati 
was,  unquestionably,  large  to  the  verge  of  prodigality. 

The  aspect  of  her  domicile,  when  he  entered  it  this 
evening,  struck  Adrian  as  much  the  same  now  as  on 
that  long-ago  visit  with  his  mother.  The  suite  of  living- 
rooms  was  lofty,  having  coved  and  painted  ceilings,  cap- 
tivating to  his  childish  fancy.  The  rooms  opened  one 
from  another  in  a  sequence  of  three.  The  two  first, 
both  somewhat  encumbered  with  furniture,  pictures,  and 
bric-a-brac — of  very  varying  value  and  merit — were 
dimly  lighted  and  vacant,  places  of  silence  and  shadows, 
the  atmosphere  of  them  impregnated  with  a  scent  of 
cedar  and  sandalwood.  From  the  third,  the  doorway 
of  which  was  masked  by  thick  curtains  of  Oriental  em- 
broidery, came  the  sound  of  a  grand  piano,  played,  and 
in  masterly  fashion,  by  a  man's  hands. 

Adrian  stopped  abruptly,  turning  to  the  elderly  maid. 

"Miss  Beauchamp  informed  me  she  would  be  alone," 
he  said. 

144 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"Mademoiselle  is  alone,"  the  maid  answered.  "She 
gave  instructions  no  one  was  to  be  admitted  save 
monsieur." 

"Thanks — I  will  not  detain  you.  I  will  announce 
myself,"  Adrian  said. 

He  crossed  the  second  and  larger  room,  threading  his 
way  in  and  out  of  a  perfect  archipelago  of  furniture ;  and 
held  one  curtain  partially  aside,  while  the  purpose  of  his 
visit  and  the  smart  of  his  own  distractions  alike  were 
merged  in  a  sensation  of  curiosity  and  surprise. 

Miss  Beauchamp  sat  at  a  grand  piano,  placed  in  the 
middle  of  the  bare  polished  floor  at  right  angles  to  the 
doorway.  Adrian  saw  her  face  and  high-shouldered,  high- 
waisted  figure  in  profile.  She  wore  a  cinnamon-colored 
tea-gown,  opening  over  an  under-dress  of  copper  sequin- 
sewn  net.  A  veritable  pagoda  of  fiery  curls  crowned  her 
head.  Yet,  though  thin  and  bony,  hers  were  the  man's 
hands  which  compelled  such  rich,  forcible  music  from 
the  piano,  making  it  speak,  declaim,  sing,  plead,  touch 
tragedy,  triumphantly  affirm,  in  this  so  very  convincing 
a  manner.  The  method  and  mind  of  the  player,  in 
their  largeness  of  conception  and  fearless  security  of 
execution,  held  the  young  man  captive,  raising  his  whole 
attitude  and  outlook  to  a  nobler  plane.  The  music,  in- 
deed, carried  his  imagination  up  to  regions  heroic.  He 
was  in  no  haste  to  have  it  cease.     He  waited,  therefore. 

When  the  final  chords  were  struck  Anastasia  Beau- 
champ,  raising  her  hands  from  the  keyboard,  rested 
the  tips  of  her  fingers  upon  the  edge  of  the  empty 
music-desk,  and  sat  motionless,  absorbed  in  thought. 
Then,  as  the  seconds  passed,  Adrian's  position  became, 
in  his  opinion,  equivocal,  courtesy  demanding  that  he 
should  either  make  his  presence  known  or  withdraw. 
He  chose  the  former  alternative  and,  taking  a  step 
forward,  let  the  curtain  fall  into  place  behind  him. 
Imperiously,  with  a  lift  of  the  chin,  Miss  Beauchamp 
turned  her  head  and  looked  full  at  him;   and,  for  a  mo- 

145 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

ment,  the  young  man  was  fairly  taken  aback.  For, 
setting  of  flaming  pagoda  and  frisky  tea-gown  notwith- 
standing, he  beheld  a  countenance  no  longer  bizarre, 
that  of  an  accredited  jester,  but  sibylline,  that  of  a 
woman  who,  in  respect  of  certain  departments  of  human 
knowledge,  has  touched  ultimate  wisdom,  so  that,  in 
respect  of  those  departments,  life  has  no  further  secrets 
to  reveal.  Here  was  something  outpacing  the  province 
of  Adrian's  self-confident,  young  masculine  attainment; 
and  it  was  to  his  credit  that  he  instantly  recognized 
this,  accepting  it  with  quick-witted  and  intuitive  sym- 
pathy. 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  have  presumed  upon  your  indulgence, 
dear  lady,"  he  said,  advancing  with  a  disarming  air  of 
admiration  and  modesty,  "by  remaining  here  unan- 
nounced. I  could  not  permit  any  interruption  of  your 
wonderful  playing.  It  would  have  amounted  to  pro- 
fanity. Your  art  is  sublime,  is  so  altogether  impres- 
sively great.  But  oh!  why,"  he  added,  as  the  sibylline 
countenance  softened  somewhat,  "have  you  elected  to 
let  me,  to  let  your  many  friends,  remain  in  ignorance  ? 
Why  have  you  deprived  us  all  of  the  joy  of  your  superb 
musical  gift?" 

"Because  that  gift  served  its  turn  very  fully  many 
years  ago,  when  you,  my  dear  Savage,  were  little  more 
than  a  baby,"  she  answered.  "Since  then  I  have  felt 
at  liberty  to  regard  my  playing  as  a  trifle  of  private 
property  which  I  might  keep  to  and  for  myself." 

As  she  spoke  Miss  Beauchamp  rose  from  her  seat  at 
the  piano,  and  began  replacing  a  multiplicity  of  bracelets 
and  rings,  laid  aside  during  the  performance. 

"As  we  grow  older  we,  most  of  us,  are  disposed  to 
practise  such  reservations,  I  suppose,  whether  openly 
acknowledged  or  not,"  she  continued.  "They  may  take 
their  rise  in  inclinations  of  a  sentimental,  avaricious,  or 
penitential  nature;  but,  however  divergent  their  cause, 
their  object  is  identical — namely,  to  keep  intact  one's 

146 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

individuality,  menaced  by  the  disintegrating  wear  and 
tear  of  outward  things.  The  tendency  of  the  modern 
world  is  to  render  one  invertebrate,  to  pound  one's  char- 
acter and  opinions  into  a  pulp.  In  self-defense  one  is 
forced  to  reserve  and  to  cultivate  some  hidden  garden, 
wherein  one's  poor,  battered  individual  me  may  walk  in 
assuaging  solitude  and  recollection.  Especially" — she 
looked  bravely  at  Adrian  through  the  shaded  light,  while 
her  long-armed,  ungainly,  rusty-gold  figure,  and  strangely 
wise  face  surmounted  by  that  flaming  top  -  knot,  ap- 
peared to  him  more  than  ever  impressive — "especially, 
perhaps,  is  this  the  case  if  that  garden  once  represented 
— as  my  music  possibly  once  did — a  Garden  of  Paradise 
in  which  one  did  not  walk  altogether  solitary.  But, 
come.  You  want  to  speak  to  me.  Let  us  go  into  the 
drawing-room  and  have  our  talk  there." 

"Let  us  talk,  by  all  means,"  Adrian  put  in,  quickly, 
"but  let  it  be  here,  please.  This  room  is  sympathetic — 
full  of  splendid  echoes  good  for  the  soul." 

Anastasia's  expression  softened  yet  more. 

"That  is  charmingly  said.  We  will  stay  here,  since  you 
wish  it.  The  sofa?  Yes,  this  is  my  corner — thanks. 
And  now,  to  be  quite  frank  with  you,  understand  that 
I  had  lost  count  of  time  and  you  were  inordinately 
punctual,  or  you  wouldn't  have  caught  me  making 
music.  And  understand,  further,  that  had  I  not  been 
unusually  moved,  by  something  which  occurred  this  af- 
ternoon, I  should  not  have  made  music  at  all.  I  rarely 
walk  in  the  hidden  garden  now.  As  one  grows  older  one 
has  to  economize  one's  emotions.  They  are  too  tiring, 
liable  to  endanger  one's  sleep  afterward.  But  this  even- 
ing circumstances,  associations,  were  too  strong  for  me. 
The  garden  called  to  me  and — I  walked." 


CHAPTER  V 

WITH    DEBORAH,    UNDER   AN    OAK   IN   THE    PARC    MONCEAU 

MISS  BEAUCHAMP  leaned  back  against  the  piled-up 
sofa  cushions  shading  her  eyes  with  her  left  hand; 
and  that  hand  must  have  been  a  little  unsteady,  since 
Adrian  heard  the  bracelets  upon  her  wrist  rattle  and 
clink. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  the  something  was  which  so 
moved  me?"  she  asked.  "Unless  I  am  greatly  mis- 
taken it  is  the  main  cause  of  our  present  interview,  so 
that  to  speak  of  it  may  help  to  make  that  interview 
easier  for  us  both." 

"  Pray  tell  me."  Adrian  felt  curious  as  to  what  should 
follow;  but  his  curiosity  was  tempered  by  deepening 
respect. 

"It  comes  to  this,  then,  my  dear  young  man,  I  think," 
she  said.  "For  those  who  have  once  been  acquainted 
with  true  love — I  am  not  speaking  of  mere  sexual  pas- 
sion, still  less  of  silly  flirtations  or  wanton  amorettes — 
those  who  have  once  known  that  uniquely  beautiful  and 
illuminating  condition  can  neither  forget  nor  mistake  it. 
They  carry  an  infallible  touchstone  in  their  own  eyes, 
and  ears,  and  hearts.  It  is  my  privilege  to  carry  such  a 
touchstone;  and  this  afternoon — there,  there,  don't 
wince;  quite,  quite  reverently  and  gently  I  put  my 
finger  on  the  fact — I  beheld  true  love  again;  but  true 
love  tormented  and  far  from  happy.     Wasn't  it  so?" 

"Yes,"  Adrian  replied,  with  a  touch  of  bitterness,  "it 
was." 

"And  that  brought  certain  events  and  experiences — 
148 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

your  dear  mother's  sympathy  and  friendship  among 
them — so  vividly  before  me  that  I  could  only  come 
home  here,  to  this  practically  deserted  room,  and  make 
music,  as  long  ago,  when  another  man,  another  true 
lover,  sat  where  you  now  sit.     Do  you  follow  me?" 

Adrian's  heart  was  somewhat  full.  He  bowed  his 
head  in  silent  assent. 

"The  ice  is  satisfactorily  broken  then?  I  am  an  old 
woman  now.  Many  people,  I  don't  doubt,  describe  me 
as  a  flighty,  prankish  old  spinster,  who  apes  departed 
youth  in  a  highly  ridiculous  manner." 

She  no  longer  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  but  looked 
full  at  Adrian,  through  the  quiet  light,  smiling — half 
sibyl,  half  jester,  but,  as  he  felt,  wholly  wise,  wholly 
kind. 

"Such  criticisms  matter  to  me  rather  less  than  noth- 
ing," she  continued,  "since  the  hidden  garden  knows  the 
why  and  wherefore  of  all  that,  and  more  besides.  And 
now,  my  dear  boy,  I  have  said  enough,  I  think,  to  show 
you  that  you  can  unburden  yourself  without  reserve  or 
hesitation.  You  will  not  speak  to  me  of  an  undiscovered 
country." 

But  just  then  Adrian  felt  it  difficult  to  speak.  Com- 
ing to  this  woman,  he  had  found  so  much  more  than  he 
had  asked  for  or  expected — namely,  a  finding  of  high 
romance,  of  almost  reckless  generosity,  which  made  him 
feel  humble,  feel  indeed  quite  quaintly  ignorant  and 
inexperienced.  It  followed  that,  when  he  did  speak,  he 
did  so  in  child-like  fashion,  protesting  his  innocence  as 
though  needing  to  disarm  censure. 

"Believe  me,  I  have  not  acted  unworthily,"  he  said. 
"From  the  first  I  was  charmed,  I  was  enthralled,  but  I 
made  every  effort  to  restrain  myself.  Even  in  thought 
I  was  loyal  to  poor  St.  Leger.  I  did  my  best  to  conceal 
my  admiration — I  kept  away,  as  much  as  I  could  with- 
out discourtesy.  You  see,  her  very  perfection  is,  in  a 
sense,  her  safeguard,  for  how  inconceivably  vile  to  en- 

149 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

danger  the  peace  of  mind  of  so  adorable  a  creature  by 
any  hint,  any  suggestion!  It  is  only  since  St.  Leger's 
death  that  I — " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  take  all  that  for  granted,"  Anastasia  broke 
in.  "Doesn't  it  stand  to  reason,  since  we  are  talking  of 
true  love?" 

And  Adrian  could  not  forbear  to  smile,  notwithstand- 
ing his  humbled  condition;  the  touch  was  so  deliciously 
feminine  in  its  assumption  and  non-logic.  Unless,  by 
chance,  she  was  laughing  at  him  out  of  her  larger  wisdom  ? 
Possibly  she  was.  Well,  she  could  do  nothing  but  right, 
anyhow — so  he  didn't  care!  Whereupon  he  proceeded 
to  pour  forth  the  history  of  his  affection  in  all  its 
phases,  from  its  first  inception  to  the  existing  moment, 
with  dramatic  fervor,  spreading  abroad  his  hands  de- 
scriptively, while  the  sentences  galloped  with  increasing 
velocity  and  the  mellow,  baritone  voice  rose  and  fell. 

"  Ah !  and  can  you  not  conceive  it  ?  After  that  dismal 
time  in  England,  burying  the  dead,  contending  with  all 
manner  of  tiresomenesses,  with  narrow-minded,  over- 
strenuous,  over-educated  women  and  men — ye  gods, 
such  men! — to  come  back,  to  see  her,  was  like  com- 
ing from  some  underground  cavern  into  the  sunshine. 
She  received  me  exquisitely.  I  tasted  ecstasy.  I  was 
transported  by  hope.  Then,  abruptly,  her  manner 
changed;  and  that  change  did  not  appear  to  me  spon- 
taneous, but  calculated — as  though,  in  obedience  to 
some  alien  influence,  she  unwillingly  put  a  constraint 
upon  herself.  Since  then  I  have  reconstituted  the  scene 
repeatedly — " 

"My  poor  dear  boy ! "  Anastasia  murmured . 

"  Yes,  repeatedly,  repeatedly.  I  try  to  convince  my- 
self that  her  change  of  manner  was  unwilling,  not  the 
result  of  caprice." 

"Madame  St.  Leger  is  not  capricious." 

"I  am  sure  of  it.  Her  nature,  at  bottom,  is  serious. 
She  reasons  and  obeys  reason.     But  in  this  case  what 

150 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

reason  ?  Not  dislike  of  me  ?  No,  no,  my  mind  refuses 
such  an  explanation  of  her  conduct.  It  would  be  too 
horrible,  too  desolating." 

"Isn't  there  another  rather  obvious  explanation  of 
Madame  St.  Leger's  attitude — the  fear  of  liking  you  a 
little  too  much?" 

"But  why  should  she  fear  to  like  me?"  poor  Adrian 
cried.  "I  am  no  devouring  monster!  I  have  some 
talent,  sufficient  means,  and  no  concealed  vices." 

And  there  the  thought  of  Rene'  Dax  invaded  him, 
scorching  him  with  positively  rampant  jealousy  and 
repulsion.  For  could  this,  which  he  had  just  asserted 
regarding  himself,  be  asserted  with  equal  truth  regarding 
the  Tadpole  of  genius?  He  knew  very  well  it  could 
not.  Still,  even  so,  he  shrank  from  the  role  of  treacher- 
ous friend  or  detractor. 

"She  can  be  gracious  enough  to  others,"  he  contented 
himself  by  saying,  gazing  at  his  hostess  meanwhile,  his 
expression  altogether  orphaned  and  pathetic. 

"Dangerously  gracious.  And  that  is  why  I  did  all  in 
my  power  to  delay  your  departure  this  afternoon,  al- 
though I  knew  perfectly  well  you  were  on  the  rack." 

"  But,  dear  God  in  heaven !"  he  broke  out,  incoherently, 
burying  his  face  in  both  hands,  "you  cannot  imply,  you 
cannot  intend  to  convey  to  me  your  belief — " 

"That  Gabrielle  St.  Leger  contemplates  marrying  that 
libelous  little  horror,  M.  Dax?     Never  in  life!" 

Adrian  got  up  and  walked  unsteadily — for  indeed  the 
floor  seemed  to  shift  and  lurch  beneath  his  feet — across 
the  room.  Without  the  faintest  conception  of  what  he 
was  looking  at,  he  minutely  examined  a  landscape  hang- 
ing upon  the  opposite  wall.  He  also  blew  his  nose  and 
wiped  his  eyes.  While  Anastasia  Beauchamp,  her  jaw 
set,  leaning  back  against  the  sofa  cushions,  very  actually 
and  poignantly  walked  in  that  hidden  garden  of  hers — 
once  a  Garden  of  Eden,  and  not  an  Adamless  one — 
wrapped  about  by  remembrance. 

151 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

After  a  time  the  young  man  came  back  and  sat  down 
beside  her.  His  face  was  white  and  his  eyes  were 
luminous. 

"Most  dear  and  kind  friend,  forgive  me,"  he  said,  very 
gently.  "  I  have  climbed  giddy  pinnacles  of  rapture,  and 
tumbled  off  them — plop — into  blackest  morasses  of 
despair  to-day,  and  my  nerves  have  suffered." 

"Ah!  it  has  got  you!"  she  returned.  "I'm  not  a  bit 
sorry  for  you.  On  the  contrary,  I  congratulate  you. 
For  you  are  very  handsomely  and  hopelessly  in  love." 

Adrian  nodded  assent,  pushing  up  the  ends  of  his 
mustache  with  a  twist  of  his  fingers  and  smiling. 

"  Yes,  yes,  indeed  I  know,"  he  said.  "  It  is  a  thing  for 
which  to  be  immeasurably  thankful.  Yet,  all  the  same, 
it  has  its  little  hours  of  inconvenience,  as  I  have  to-day 
discovered.  It  can  hold  the  field  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
else ;  and  that  with  a  quite  demoralizing  intensity,  mak- 
ing one  feel  murderous  toward  one's  oldest  friends  and, 
in  respect  of  one's  work,  no  better  than  a  driveling 
idiot." 

"Such  are  inevitable  symptoms  of  the  blessed  state. 
I  still  congratulate  you." 

"But  you  admit,  at  least,  that  they  are  practically 
extremely  impeding?  And  so,  dear  Mademoiselle,  you 
whom  my  mother  loved  and  who  loved  my  mother,  you 
who  have  done  so  much  to  help  and  comfort  me  in  the 
last  half-hour — will  you  do  something  more?" 

"I  suppose  I  shall,"  Anastasia  answered,  with  a 
laugh  which  was  against  herself  rather  than  against  him. 
"I  seem  to  be  pretty  thoroughly  committed  to  this 
business  for — well,  for  two  people's  sakes,  perhaps." 

"Yes,  for  her  sake  also — for  hers  as  well  as  mine," 
Adrian  cried,  impetuously.  "Those  few  words  are 
beautifully  full  of  encouragement.  For  see  here,"  he 
went  on,  "in  some  ways  I  am  just  simply  an  obstinate, 
pig-headed  Englishman.  You  permit  me  to  speak  quite 
freely?     Loosing  her,  I  cannot  console  myself  elsewhere. 

152 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

It  is  not  merely  a  wife  that  I  want ;  having  reached  the  age 
when  a  man  should  range  himself  a  well-bred,  healthy, 
and  generally  unexceptionable  mother  for  his  children. 
Don't  imagine  that  I  would  not  like  to  make  my  sub- 
scription to  humanity  in  the  form  of  charming  babies. 
Of  course  I  should.  Still  those  small  people,  however 
beguiling,  are  not  to  the  point  in  this  connection.  I  am 
not  in  pursuit  of  a  suitable  marriage,  but  of — " 

"La  belle  Gabrielle — only  and  solely  la  belle  Gabrielle 
— that  must  be  conspicuously  evident  to  the  meanest 
intelligence,"  Anastasia  put  in,  merrily.  "But  there, 
unfortunately,  we  run  up  against  the  crux  of  the  whole 
situation.  For,  it  is  only  fair  to  tell  you,  our  exquisite 
young  woman  is  even  less  in  pursuit  of  a  suitable  mar- 
riage than  you  yourself  are.  We  have  had  some  intimate 
conversations,  she  and  I.  Don't  imagine  for  an  instant 
your  name,  or  any  other  name,  has  been  hinted  at,  much 
less  mentioned.  But  she  has  been  good  enough  to  be- 
stow her  confidence  upon  me,  in  as  far  as  she  bestows  it 
upon  any  one.  Fundamentally  she  is  a  mysterious 
creature,  and  that's  exactly  why,  I  suppose,  one  finds 
her  so  endlessly  interesting.  And,  from  those  conversa- 
tions, I  gather  her  mind  is  set  on  things  quite  other  than 
marriage." 

"Ah!  just  Heaven — and  what  things,  then?"  poor 
Adrian  exclaimed,  distraction  again  threatening  him. 

"She  would,  I  think,'  have  very  great  difficulty  in 
telling  you." 

Here  distraction  did  more  than  threaten.  It  jumped 
on  him,  so  that  in  his  agitation  he  positively  bounced, 
ball-like,  upon  the  seat  of  the  sofa. 

"I  knew  it,"  he  cried.  "I  was  sure  of  it.  Almost 
immediately  I  detected  an  alien  and  inimical  influence 
intrude  itself  between  us,  as  I  have  already  told  you, 
and  battle  against  me.  And  this  was  the  more  detest- 
able to  me  because  I  felt  powerless  to  combat  it,  being  ig- 
norant whence  it  came  and  what  its  nature  actually  was." 

153 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Miss  Beauchamp  looked  at  him  indulgently.  And 
he,  distraction  notwithstanding,  perceived  that  her 
countenance  once  more  had  grown  sibylline.  This 
served  sensibly  to  quiet  and  steady  him. 

"I  fancy  that  influence  comes  from  very  deep  and 
very  far,"  she  said.  "A  woman  of  so  much  tempera- 
ment and  so  much  intelligence  as  Gabrielle  St.  Leger 
must,  of  necessity,  be  the  child  of  the  age  in  which  she 
lives,  in  touch  with  the  spirit  of  it.  Her  eyes  are  turned 
toward  the  future,  and  the  strange  unrestful  wind,  the 
wind  of  Modernity,  which  blows  from  out  the  future,  is 
upon  her  face.  This  is  the  influence  you  have  to  battle 
against,  my  dear  young  man,  I  am  afraid,  nothing  less 
than  the  Spirit  of  the  Age,  the  spirit  of  Modernity.  You 
have  your  work  cut  out  for  you!  To  combat  it  suc- 
cessfully will  be— to  put  it  vulgarly— a  mighty  tough 
job." 

"  Like  King  David  of  old,  I'd  rather  fall  into  the  hands 
of  God  than  into  those  of  man,"  Adrian  returned,  with 
rather  rueful  humor. 

"Is  one  so  very  sure  they  are  the  hands  of  the  Al- 
mighty? Too  often  one  has  reason  to  suspect  they  be- 
long to  exactly  the  opposite  person — the  inspirer — 
namely,  of  so  many  of  your  friend  M.  Rene*  Dax's  un- 
pardonable caricatures.  But  there,"  she  added,  "I 
don't  want  to  give  place  to  prejudice;  though  whether 
Modernity  is  veritably  the  highroad  to  the  state  of 
human  earthly  felicity  its  exponents  so  confidently — and 
truculently — predict,  or  not  rather  to  some  appalling 
and  final  catastrophe,  some  Armageddon,  and  Twilight 
of  the  Gods,  appears  to  me,  in  the  existing  stage  of  its 
evolution,  open  to  the  liveliest  question.  Fortunately, 
at  my  time  of  life  one  is  free  to  stand  aside  and  look  on, 
passively  awaiting  the  event  without  taking  part  in  the 
production  of  it.  But  with  Madame  St.  Leger,  as  with 
yourself,  it  is  different.  You  are  on  the  active  list. 
Whether  you  like  or  not,  you  are  bound  to  participate 

i54 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

in  the  production  of  the  event — and  she,  at  least,  is  by 
no  means  unwilling  to  do  so." 

"But  how,  chere  Mademoiselle,  but  how?"  Adrian 
questioned. 

"After  a  fashion  you  can  hardly  be  expected  to  in- 
dorse enthusiastically." 

Miss  Beauchamp  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  left  hand 
again,  while  the  many  bracelets  slipping  up  her  thin 
wrist  clinked  and  rattled. 

"See  here,  my  dear  Savage,"  she  said,  "among  all 
the  destructions  and  reconstructions,  the  changes — many 
of  them  nominal  rather  than  real,  and,  consequently, 
superfluous — of  which  Modernity  is  made  up,  one  change 
is  very  real  and  has,  I  sincerely  believe,  come  to  stay. 
I  mean  the  widespread  change  in  thought  and  attitude 
of  my  sex  toward  yours." 

"Feminism,  in  short." 

"  In  short,  Feminism." 

A  little  silence  followed.  Then :  "  You  take  the  dose 
very  nicely,"  Anastasia  said. 

"  Perhaps  I  take  it  so  nicely  because  I  am  convinced  it 
is  innocuous.  On  the  other  hand,  perhaps  I  don't  take 
it  at  all.     Really,  I, am  not  certain  which." 

He  shifted  his  position,  planting  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  his  chin  in  the  hollow  of  his  hands. 

"The  deuce,  the  deuce!"  he  said,  softly,  tapping  one 
long-toed  boot  meditatively  upon  the  floor. 

Miss  Beauchamp  watched  him,  amused,  observant, 
making  no  comment. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  went  on,  presently.  "  It's  all  moon- 
shine, of  course.  Nature's  too  strong  for  them.  In  the 
end  they  must  come  into  line." 

"Moonshine  has  often  proved  a  very  dangerous,  be- 
cause so  very  intangible  an  enemy.  And  the  end  prom- 
ises to  be  far  off." 

"Yes,  I  am  sorry,"  Adrian  repeated,  "very  sorry.  If 
we  were  over  in  England  I  could  understand.  Women 
11  155 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

there  have  an  excuse  for  revolt.  All  Englishmen  are 
pedants,  even  in  their  games,  even  in  their  sport.  They 
have  been  called  a  nation  of  shopkeepers.  They  might 
with  equal  truth  be  called  a  nation  of  schoolmasters;  not 
because  they  desire  to  impart  knowledge,  but  because 
they  crave  to  exercise  power  and  prove,  to  themselves, 
their  innate  superiority  by  the  chastisement  of  others. 
Ah !  I  have  witnessed  plenty  of  that  in  the  last  month ! 
Truly,  they  are  very  disagreeable  sons,  husbands,  and 
fathers,  those  middle-class  Britons,  the  schoolmaster,  so 
to  speak,  permanently  on  top.  And  there  are  not  even 
enough  of  them  to  go  round!  Numerically  they  are 
inferior;  and  this  helps  to  feed  their  arrogance  and  in- 
flame their  conceit.  But  even  if  there  were  enough,  they 
wouldn't — if  I  may  so  express  myself — go  round.  On 
the  contrary,  they  would  go  in  the  opposite  direction,  to 
their  own  selfish  pleasures,  their  clubs,  their  playing- 
fields,  their  interminable  football,  and  cricket,  and  golf." 

"  Hum — hum!  What  about  the  British  flag  you  waved 
so  vigorously  five  minutes  ago?" 

"Did  I?  Forget  it,  then.  It  was  a  passing  aberra- 
tion. I  repent  and  wrap  myself  once  more  in  the  folds 
of  the  tricolor.  Most  distinctly  that  is  the  flag  under 
which  a  lover  of  your  adorable  sex  should  fight!" 

"With  the  Gallic  cock  set  symbolic  at  the  top  of 
the  flag-staff?" 

"And  why  not?  Why  not?  Who  can  do  otherwise 
than  behold  with  approval  that  smart,  well-groomed, 
abundantly  amatory,  I  grant  you,  but  also  abundantly 
chivalrous  fowl  ?  His  absence  is,  in  a  sense,  precisely  that 
with  which  I  quarrel  on  the  other  side  of  the  Channel. 
It  goes  to  make  the  revolt  of  the  Englishwoman  com- 
prehensible. Her  countrymen's  relation  to  her  is  so  in- 
artistic, so  utilitarian,  so  without  delicate  humor.  We 
hear  of  her  freedom  from  annoyance,  her  personal 
security.  But  in  what  do  these  take  their  rise  ?  Simply 
in  her  countrymen's  indifference  to  her — to  her  emotions, 

156 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

her  mentality,  her  thousand  and  one  delicate  needs, 
elusive  and  charming  necessities.  If  he  thinks  about 
her  at  all,  it  is  with  the  schoolmaster's  odious  design 
of  correcting  her  faults,  of  improving  her.  The  blatant 
conceit  of  the  animal !  As  if  she  could  be  improved,  as 
if  she  were  not  perfect  already!  But  stay.  There  I 
pause  to  correct  myself.  The  Englishwoman  is  suscepti- 
ble of  improvement.  And  how  ?  By  being  snubbed,  de- 
pressed, depreciated,  grumbled  at,  scolded,  made  to 
think  meanly  of  herself?  Never  a  bit. — She  has  suf- 
fered generations  of  that  treatment  already.  By  being 
admired,  reverenced,  playfully  delighted  in,  appreci- 
ated,  encouraged." 

Adrian  spread  abroad  his  hands  with  the  most  amiably 
persuasive  expression  and  gesture. 

"Ah!  believe  me,  dear  friend,"  he  cried,  "when 
Luther,  the  burly  renegade  German  monk;  Calvin,  the 
parchment-dry,  middle-class  Picard  lawyer,  and  English 
'King  Hal,'  of  grossest  memory,  conspired  to  depose 
Our  Blessed  Lady  from  her  rightful  throne  in  heaven, 
they,  incidentally,  went  far  to  depose  woman  from  her 
rightful  throne  here  upon  earth.  So  that,  small  won- 
der, having  no  eternal,  universal  Mother,  whose  aid  and 
patronage  she  can  invoke  in  hours  of  perplexity  and  dis- 
tress, the  modern,  non-Catholic  woman  is  constrained 
to  rush  around  in  prison-vans,  or  any  other  unlovely 
public  vehicle  which  may  come  handy,  invoking  the  aid 
of  parliamentary  suffrage  and  kindred  dreary  mechan- 
ical forms  of  protection  against  the  tedious  tyrannies  of 
arrogant,  sullen,  selfish,  slow-witted,  birch-rod-wielding, 
pedagogic  man.  Yes,  truly,  as  over  there,  I  understand, 
I  sympathize.  But  here,  where,  though  we  may  have 
tolerated,  even  invented,  Revolution,  we  have  at  least 
withstood  that  most  time-serving  and  inartistic  com- 
promise, Reformation — with  an  impudent  capital  letter 
— here,  in  the  patrimony  of  Chantecler,  enveloped  in  the 
folds  of  the  gallant  tricolor,  surely  such  revolt  is  un- 

157 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

reasonable,  is  out  of  place!  For  here  are  we  not  all 
Feminists,  every  man-jack  of  us?  Chere  Mademoiselle, 
you  know  that  we  are.  What  more,  then,  have  the 
members  of  your  adored  sex  to  ask?" 

And,  for  the  moment,  Anastasia  Beauchamp's  usually 
ready  tongue  played  her  false.  The  whirl  of  words  had 
been  somewhat  overpowering,  while,  through  the  whirl, 
his  good  faith  was  so  transparently  apparent,  his  argu- 
ment suggested  rather  than  aggressively  pressed  home, 
so  evidently  to  himself  conclusive,  that  a  cogent  answer 
was  far  from  easy  to  frame. 

"What  more  have  they  to  ask?"  she  said,  presently, 
smiling  at  him.  "  Well,  just  those  alluring,  because  new, 
untried  and  intangible  satisfactions  which  the  Spirit  of 
the  Age  promises  so  largely,  and  which  you,  my  dear 
Savage,  if  you'll  pardon  my  saying,  don't  and  can't 
promise  at  all." 

"The  Spirit  of  the  Age  now,  as  so  often  in  history,  will 
prove  a  false  prophet,  a  charlatan  and  juggler,  making 
large  promises  which  he  will  fail  to  redeem,"  Adrian  de- 
clared. "See,  do  not  art,  nature,  the  cumulative  result 
of  human  experience,  combine  to  discredit  his  methods 
and  condemn  his  objects?" 

"  Convince  Gabrielle  St.  Leger  of  that,  and  my  thanks 
and  applause  will  not  be  wanting." 

"I  will  convince  her,"  Adrian  cried,  with  growing 
exaltation.  "I  will  convince  her.  I  devote  my  life  to 
that  purpose,  to  that  end." 

And  thereupon  a  certain  solemnity  seemed  to  descend 
upon  and  diffuse  itself  through  the  quiet,  lofty  room, 
affecting  both  speaker  and  listener,  causing  them  to 
sit  silent,  as  though  in  hushed  suspense,  awaiting  the 
sensible  ratification  of  some  serious  engagement  en- 
tered into,  some  binding  oath  taken.  In  the  stillness 
faint,  fugitive  echoes  reached  them  of  the  palpitating 
life  and  movement  of  the  city  outside.  The  effect 
was  arresting.    To  Adrian  it  seemed  as  though  he  stood 

158 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

on  the  extreme  edge,  the  crumbling,  treacherous  verge, 
of  some  momentous  episode  in  which  he  was  foredoomed 
to  play  a  part,  but  a  part  alien  to  his  desires  and  defiant 
of  his  control.  While — and  this  touched  him  with  in- 
timate, though  half -ashamed,  shrinking  and  repudiation 
— not  Gabrielle  St.  Leger,  but  Joanna  Smyrthwaite  ap- 
peared to  stand  beside  him  imploring  rescue  and  safety 
upon  that  treacherously  crumbling  verge.  His  sense  of 
her  presence  was  so  acute,  so  overmastering  in  its  inten- 
sity, that  he  felt  in  an  instant  more  he  should  hear  her 
flat,  colorless  voice  and  be  compelled — how  unwillingly! 
— to  meet  the  fixed  scrutiny  of  her  pale,  insatiable  eyes. 

Then,  startling  in  its  suddenness  as  the  ping  of  a  rifle- 
bullet,  came  a  very  different  sound  to  that  of  Joanna's 
toneless  voice  close  at  hand.  For,  with  a  wrenching 
twang  and  thin,  piercing,  long-drawn  vibration  which 
shuddered  through  the  air,  shuddered  through  every 
object  in  the  room,  strangely  setting  in  motion  that 
pervasive  scent  of  cedar  and  sandalwood,  a  string  of 
the  piano  broke. 

Miss  Beauchamp  uttered  an  angry,  yet  smothered,  cry, 
as  one  who  receives  and  resents  an  unexpected  hurt. 
And  Adrian,  alarmed,  agitated,  hardly  understanding 
what  had  actually  occurred,  turning  to  her,  perceived 
that  her  countenance  again  had  changed.  Now  it  was 
that  neither  of  sibyl  nor  of  jester,  but  vivid,  keen  with 
fight.  Yet,  even  as  he  looked,  it  grew  gray,  grief -smitten, 
immeasurably,  frighteningly  old. 

Natural  pity,  and  some  inherited  instinct  of  healing, 
made  the  young  man  lean  toward  her  and  take  her  hand 
in  his,  holding  and  chafing  it,  while  his  finger-tips  sought 
and  found  the  little  space  between  the  sinews  of  the 
wrist  where  the  tides  of  life  ebb  and  flow.  Her  pulse 
was  barely  perceptible,  intermittent,  weak  as  a  thread. 

Adrian  took  the  other  passive  hand,  and,  chafing  both, 
used  this  contact  as  a  conduit  along  which  to  transmit 
some  of  his  own  fine  vitality.     His  act  of  willing  this 

J59 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

transmission  was  conscious,  determined,  his  concentra- 
tion of  purpose  great ;  so  that  presently,  while  he  watched 
her,  the  grayness  lifted,  her  lips  regained  their  normal 
color,  her  pulse  steadied  and  strengthened,  and  her  face 
filled  out,  resuming  its  natural  contours.  Then  as  she 
moved  sat  upright,  smiling,  an  unusual  softness  in  her 
expression. 

"Don't  attempt  to  speak  yet,"  he  said,  still  busy  with 
and  somewhat  excited  by  his  work  of  restoration.  "  Rest 
a  little.  I  have  been  a  shameless  egoist  this  evening.  I 
have  talked  too  much,  have  made  too  heavy  a  demand 
upon  your  sympathies,  and  so  have  exhausted  you." 

"Whatever  you  may  have  taken,  you  have  more  than 
paid  back,"  she  answered.  She  was  touched — a  nostal- 
gia being  upon  her  for  things  no  longer  possible,  for 
youth  and  all  the  glory  and  sweetness  of  youth.  "It  is 
not  for  nothing  that  you  are  the  son  of  a  famous  physician 
and  of  a  woman  of  remarkable  imaginative  gifts,"  she 
went  on.  "You  have  la  main  heureuse,  life-giving  both 
to  body  and  spirit.  This  is  a  power  and  a  great  one.  But 
now  that,  thanks  to  you,  my  weakness  is  passed  we 
will  not  remain  in  this  room.  You  said  it  was  full  of 
splendid  echoes,  good  for  the  soul.  It  is  rather  too  full 
of  them,  since  one's  soul  is  still  weighted  with  a  body. 
I  find  them  oppressive  in  their  suggestion  and  demand. 
Frankly,  I  dare  not  expose  myself  to  their  influence 
any  longer." 

Helped  by  Adrian,  she  rose  and,  taking  his  arm, 
moved  slowly  toward  the  doorway. 

"Sometimes,  unexpectedly,  the  merciful  dimness 
which  holds  our  eyes  is  broken  up,  giving  place  to  mo- 
mentary clear-seeing  of  all  which  lies  beyond  and  around 
the  commonplace  and  conventional  medium  in  which  we 
live.  Unless  one  is  rather  abnormally  constituted  that 
clear-seeing  is  liable  to  blind  rather  than  to  illuminate. 
Flesh  and  blood  aren't  quite  equal  to  it.  And  so  with 
the  snapping  of  the  piano  string.     Doubtless  the  causes 

1 60 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

were  simple  enough— some  peculiar  atmospheric  condi- 
tions, along  with  the  fact  that  the  instrument  has  been 
unused  for  many  months.  Still  in  me  it  produced  one 
of  those  fateful  instants  of  clairvoyance.  I  knew  it  for 
the  signing  of  a  death-warrant.  Not  my  own.  Thanks 
to  the  kindly  ministrations  of  la  main  heureuse  the  sig- 
nature of  that  particular  warrant  is  postponed  for  a 
while  yet.  Nor  yours  either,  of  that  I  am  convinced.  I 
cannot  say  whose.  The  clear-seeing  was  too  rapidly 
obscured  by  failing  bodily  strength.  I  am  not  talking 
nonsense.  This  has  happened  twice  before.  The  second 
time  a  string  broke  my  brother's  death  followed  within 
the  year." 

"And  the  first  time?"  Adrian  felt  impelled  to  ask. 
His  recent  expenditure  of  will-power  had  left  his  nerves 
in  a  state  of  slightly  unstable  equilibrium  which  rendered 
him  highly  impressionable. 

"The  first  time?"  Miss  Beauchamp  repeated,  lifting 
her  hand  from  his  arm.  "The  death  of  that  other  true 
lover,  who  listened  here  to  my  playing,  of  the  friend 
who  walked  with  me  in  the  hidden  garden,  followed  the 
breaking  of  the  first  string." 

Adrian  stepped  forward  and  held  aside  the  embroidered 
curtain,  letting  her  pass  into  the  drawing-room.  Here 
the  air  was  lighter,  the  moral  and  emotional  atmosphere, 
as  it  seemed  to  him,  lighter  likewise.  He  was  aware  of 
a  relaxation  of  mental  tension  and  a  deadening  of  sensa- 
tion which  he  at  once  welcomed  and  regretted.  He 
waited  a  few  seconds  until  he  was  sure  that  in  his  own 
case,  too,  any  disquieting  tendency  to  clairvoyance  was 
over  and  the  conventional  and  commonplace  had  fairly 
come  back. 

Miss  Beauchamp  passed  on  into  the  first  room  of  the 
suite.  Here  the  lights  were  turned  on  and  he  found 
her  seated  at  a  little  supper-table,  vivacious,  accentuated 
in  aspect  and  manner,  flaming  pagoda  of  curls  and  frisky 
cinnamon-colored,  sequin-sewn  tea-gown  once  again  very 

161 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

much  in  evidence.  But  these  things  no  longer  jarred  on 
him.  He  could  view  them  in  their  true  perspective, 
as  the  masquerade  make-up  with  which  a  proud  woman 
elected — in  self-defense — to  disguise  too  deep  a  knowl- 
edge, too  sensitive  a  nature,  and  too  passionate  a  heart. 

"Yes,  sit  down,  my  dear  Savage,"  she  cried,  "sit 
down.  Eat  and  drink.  For  really  it  is  about  time  we 
both  indulged  in  what  are  vulgarly  called  'light  refresh- 
ments.' We  have  been  surprisingly  clever,  you  and  I,  and 
have  rubbed  our  wits  together  to  the  emission  of  many 
sparks!  I  am  not  a  bit  above  restoring  wasted  tissue  in 
this  practical  manner — nor,  I  trust,  are  you.  Moreover, 
our  lengthy  discourse  notwithstanding,  I  have  still  five 
words  to  say  to  you.  For,  see,  very  soon  Madame  St. 
Leger's  period  of  mourning  will  be  over.  She  will  begin 
to  go  into  society  again." 

"Alas!  yes."     Adrian  sighed. 

"You  don't  like  it?  Probably  not.  You  would  pre- 
fer keeping  her,  like  blessed  St.  Barbara,  shut  up  on  the 
top  of  her  tower,  I  dare  say.  But  doesn't  it  occur  to  you 
that  there  are  as  insidious  dangers  on  the  tower  top  as 
in  the  world  below — visits  from  the  little  horror,  M. 
Rene"  Dax,  for  example  ?  Anyhow,  she  will  shortly  very 
certainly  descend  from  the  tower.  For  we  are  neither 
of  us,  I  suppose,  under  the  delusion  she  has  buried  all 
her  joy  of  living  in  poor  Horace  St.  Leger's  grave." 

"I  have  no  violent  objection  to  her  not  having  done 
so,"  Adrian  said,  with  becoming  gravity. 

"That  first  descent  after  her  long  seclusion  will  be 
critical.     She  will  need  protection  and  advice." 

"Her  mother,  Madame  Vernois,  is  at  hand,"  Adrian 
remarked,  perhaps  rather  tentatively. 

"  Yes,  a  sweet  person  and  a  devoted  mother;  but  a  lit- 
tle conspicuously  with  the  outlook  and  moral  standards 
of  a  past  generation.  She  is  at  once  too  charitable  and 
too  humble-minded  to  be  a  judge  of  character — one  born 
to  follow  rather  than  to  lead  —  and,  though  a  woman 

162 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

of  breeding  and  position,  always  a  provincial.  She 
followed  Professor  Vernois  as  long  as  he  was  here  to 
follow.  Then  she  followed  her  noble  and  needy  relations 
away  in  Chambe'ry.  Now  she  follows  her  beautiful 
daughter.  And  the  daughter,  in  the  near  future,  is  going 
to  be  a  mark  for  the  archers — male  and  female.  Already 
I  have  reason  to  believe  that  archery  practice  has  begun. 
The  sweet,  timid  mother,  though  perplexed  and  anxious, 
hasn't  a  notion  how  to  turn  those  arrows  aside." 

Miss  Beauchamp  gazed  into  the  shallow  depths  of 
her  wine-glass. 

"It's  an  unsavory  subject,"  she  continued,  "and,  I 
agree  with  you,  Feminism  has  next  to  no  legitimate  ex- 
cuse for  existence  here.  That  is  just  why,  I  imagine,  it 
has  allied  itself  with  ideas  and  practices  not  precisely 
legitimate.  It  makes  its  appeal  to  by  no  means  the 
most  exalted  elements  of  our  very  mixed  human  nature." 

"Ah!  but,"  Adrian  broke  out  in  a  white  heat  of  anger, 
"  it  is  not  possible !  Such  persons  would  never  presume — " 

"They  have  already  presumed.  Z£lie  de  Gand,  helped 
by  I  don't  quite  know  who,  though  I  have  my  suspicions, 
has  approached  Madame  St.  Leger.  She  is  crazy  to 
recover  lost  ground,  to  get  herself  and  her  clique  re- 
instated. Madame  St.  Leger's  beauty,  brains,  and  her 
reputation — so  absolutely  unsullied  and  above  suspicion 
— represent  an  immense  asset  to  any  cause  she  may 
embrace." 

"But  need  she  embrace  any  cause?" 

"My  dear  young  man,"  Miss  Beauchamp  returned, 
smiling  rather  broadly,  "you  had  better  take  it  for  said, 
once  and  for  all,  that  a  beautiful  young  woman  of  seven 
and  twenty,  who  is  beginning  the  world  afresh  after  being 
relieved  of  a  not  entirely  satisfactory  marriage,  is  per- 
fectly certain  to  embrace — well — well — Something,  if  she 
doesn't  embrace  Somebody." 

Presently,    after   a   silence,    Anastasia   spoke  again, 

gently  and  seriously. 

163 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"I  am  altogether  on  your  side,"  she  said.  "But  I 
cannot  pretend  it  is  plain  sailing  for  you.  There  is  a 
reserve  of  enthusiasm  in  her  nature,  an  heroic  strain 
pushing  her  toward  great  enterprises.  It  may  be  she 
will  suffer  before  she  arrives,  will  be  led  astray,  will 
follow  delusions.  Her  mind  is  critical  rather  than  crea- 
tive. She  is  disposed  to  distrust  her  instincts  and  to 
reason  where  she  had  ten  thousand  times  better  only 
feel.  And,  as  I  tell  you,  she  looks  toward  the  future; 
the  restless  wind  of  it  is  upon  her  face,  alluring,  exciting 
her.  No — no — it  is  not  plain  sailing  for  you,  my  dear 
young  man.  But,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  let  true  love 
be  your  undoing,  seducing  you  from  work,  from  per- 
sonal achievement  in  your  own  admirable  world  of 
letters.  For  remember,  the  greater  your  own  success 
the  more  you  have  to  offer.  And  the  modern  woman 
asks  that.  She  requires  not  merely  Somebody  to  whom 
to  give  herself,  but  Something  which  shall  so  satisfy  her 
brain  and  her  ambitions  as  to  make  that  supreme  act 
of  giving  worth  while." 

Anastasia  smiled  wistfully,  sadly. 

"Yes,  indeed,  times  have  changed  and  the  fashion  of 
them!  Man's  supremacy  is  very  quaintly  threatened. 
For  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the  human  race  he 
finds  sex  at  a  discount. — But  now  good-night,  my  dear 
Savage.  Whenever  you  think  I  can  help  you,  come. 
You  will  always  be  welcome.  And — this  last  word  at 
parting — do  your  possible  to  keep  that  little  horror  away 
from  her.  In  him  Modernity  finds  a  most  malign  em- 
bodiment.    Farewell." 


CHAPTER  VI 

RECORDING  THE    VIGIL    OF   A    SCARLET   HOMUNCULUS   AND 
ARISTIDES    THE   JUST 

THE  gray  lemur  sat  before  the  fire  in  a  baby's 
scarlet-painted  cane  chair.  He  kept  his  knees  well 
apart,  so  that  the  comfortable  warmth,  given  off  by  the 
burning  logs  and  bed  of  glowing  ashes,  might  reach  his 
furry  concave  stomach  and  the  inside  of  his  furry  thighs. 
His  long,  ringed  tail,  slipped  neatly  under  the  arm  of  the 
little  scarlet  chair,  lay,  like  a  thick  gray  note  of  interro- 
gation, upon  the  surface  of  the  black  Aubusson  carpet. 
Now  and  again  he  leaned  his  slender,  small-waisted  body 
forward,  grasping  the  chair-arms  with  his  two  hands — 
which  resembled  a  baby's  leather  gloves  with  fur  backs 
to  them — and  advanced  a  sensitive,  inquisitive,  pointed 
muzzle  toward  the  blaze,  his  nose  being  cold.  His 
movements  were  attractive  in  their  composure  and  re- 
straint. For  this  quadrumanous  exile  from  sub-tropic 
Madagascan  forests  was  a  dignified  little  personage,  not 
in  the  least  addicted,  as  the  vulgar  phrase  has  it,  to  giv- 
ing himself  away. 

At  first  sight  the  lemur,  sitting  thus  before  the  fire, 
appeared  to  be  the  sole  inhabitant  of  the  bare  white- 
walled  studio.  Then,  as  the  eye  became  accustomed  to 
the  dusky  light,  shed  by  hanging  electric  lamps  with 
dark  smoked-glass  shades  to  them,  other  queer  living 
creatures  disclosed  their  presence. 

At  the  end  of  the  great  room  farthest  from  the  door, 
where  it  narrowed  in  two  oblique  angles  under  high, 
shelving  skylights,  in  a  glass  tank — some  five  feet  by  three 

165 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

and  about  two  feet  deep — set  on  a  square  of  mosaic  pave- 
ment, goldfish  swam  lazily  to  and  fro.  In  the  center  of 
the  tank,  about  the  rockwork  built  up  around  the  jet  of 
a  little  tinkling  fountain,  small,  dull-hued  tortoises  with 
skinny  necks  and  slimy  carapaces  and  black-blotched, 
orange-bellied,  crested  tritons  crawled.  While  all  round 
the  room,  forming  a  sort  of  dado  to  the  height  of  above 
five  feet,  ran  an  arabesque  of  scenes  and  figures,  some 
life-size,  some  even  colossal,  some  minute  and  exquisitely 
finished,  some  blurred  and  half  obliterated,  in  places 
superimposed,  sketched  one  over  the  other  to  the  pro- 
duction of  madly  nightmarish  effects  of  heads,  limbs, 
trunks,  and  features  attached,  divided,  flung  broadcast, 
heaped  together  in  horrible  promiscuosity.  All  were 
drawn  boldly,  showing  an  astonishing  vivacity  of  line 
and  mastery  of  attitude  and  expression,  in  charcoal  or 
red  and  black  chalk,  or  were  washed  in  with  the  brush 
in  Indian  ink  and  light  red.  In  the  dusky  lamplight  and 
scintillating  firelight  this  amazing  decoration  seemed 
endowed  with  life  and  movement,  so  that  shamelessly,  in 
unholy  mirth,  hideousness,  and  depravity  it  stalked  and 
pranced,  beckoned,  squirmed,  and  flaunted  upon  those 
austerely  snow-white  walls. 

For  the  rest,  chairs,  tables,  easels,  even  the  model's 
movable  platform,  were,  like  the  carpet,  dead  black. 
Two  low,  wide  divans  upholstered  in  black  brocade  stood 
on  either  side  of  the  deep  outstanding  chimney-breast; 
and  upon  the  farther  one,  masked  by  a  red-lacquer 
folding  screen,  amid  a  huddle  of  soft,  black  pillows, 
flat  on  its  back,  a  human  form  reposed — but  whether 
of  living  man  or  of  cleverly  disposed  lay  figure  remained 
debatable,  since  it  was  shrouded  from  head  to  heel  in  a 
black  silk  resai,  even  the  face  being  covered,  and  its 
immobility  complete. 

On  taking  leave  of  Anastasia  Beauchamp,  Adrian 
Savage  had  found  himself  in  no  humor  either  for  work 
or  for  sleep.     His  search  for  the  further  reason  had 

166 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

led  him  a  longer  journey  than  he  anticipated.  And  in 
some  of  its  stages  that  journey  offered  disquieting  epi- 
sodes. He  admitted  he  was  still  puzzled,  still  anxious; 
more  than  ever  determined  as  to  the  final  result,  yet 
hardly  more  clear  as  to  how  the  result  in  question  might 
be  obtained.  There  were  points  which  needed  thinking 
out,  but  to  think  them  out  profitably  he  must  regain  his 
normal  attitude  of  mind  and  self-possession.  So,  reckon- 
ing it  useless  to  go  home  to  his  well-found  bachelor 
apartments  in  the  rue  de  V  University,  he  decided  to 
walk  till  such  time  as  physical  exercise  had  regulated 
both  his  bodily  and  mental  circulation. 

It  happened  to  be  the  moment  of  the  turn-out  of 
theaters  and  other  places  of  entertainment,  and,  as  the 
young  man  made  his  way  down  toward  the  Place  de 
I'Opera,  the  aspect  of  the  town  struck  him  as  conspicu- 
ously animated  and  brilliant.  His  eyes,  still  focused  to 
the  quiet  English  atmosphere  and  landscape,  were  quickto 
note  the  contrast  to  these  presented  by  his  existing  sur- 
roundings. He  invited  impressions,  looking  at  the  scene 
sympathetically,  yet  idly,  as  at  the  pages  of  a  picture- 
book.  Strong  effects  of  light  and  color  held  the  ground 
plan,  above  which  the  tall,  many- windowed  houses  rose 
as  some  pale  striated  cliff-face  toward  the  strip  of  in- 
finitely remote,  star-pierced  sky.  It  was  sharply  cold, 
and  through  the  exciting  tumult  of  the  streets  he  could 
detect  a  shrill  singing  of  wind  in  telegraph  and  telephone 
wires  and  amid  the  branches  of  the  leafless  trees.  In 
like  manner,  passing  from  the  material  to  the  moral 
plane,  through  the  accentuated  vivacity  of  the  amuse- 
ment-seeking crowd,  he  seemed  to  detect,  as  so  often  in 
Paris— is  not  that,  indeed,  half  the  secret  of  her  magic 
and  her  charm?— a  certain  instability  and  menace,  a 
shrill  singing  of  possible  social  upheaval,  of  Revolution 
always  there  close  at  hand  awaiting  her  surely  recur- 
rent hour  of  opportunity. 

To  Adrian,  after  precedent-ridden,  firmly  planted, 
167 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

middle-class  England  and  the  English,  that  effect  of  in- 
stability, that  shrill  singing  of  social  upheaval,  proved 
stimulating.  He  breathed  it  in  with  conscious  enjoy- 
ment while  negotiating  thickly  peopled  pavements  or 
madly  tram-  and-  motor-rushed  crossings.  For  these 
dear  Parisians,  as  he  told  himself,  alike  in  mind  and  in 
appearance,  are  both  individual  and  individualists  with 
a  positive  vengeance,  possessing  not  only  the  courage  of 
their  physical  types — and  making,  for  beauty  or  the  re- 
verse, the  very  most  of  them — and  the  courage  of  their 
convictions;  but  the  courage  of  their  emotions  likewise. 
And  how  refreshingly  many  are  those  emotions,  how 
variegated,  how  incalculable,  how  explosive!  How  ar- 
ticulate, too,  ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to  justify  their 
existence  by  the  discharge  of  salvos  of  impassioned 
rhetoric!  If  the  English  might  fairly  be  called  a  nation 
of  pedants,  these  might,  with  at  least  equal  fairness,  be 
called  a  nation  of  comedians;  not  in  the  sense  of  pretend- 
ing, of  intentionally  playing  a  part — to  that  affectation 
the  English  were  far  more  addicted — but  in  the  sense  of 
regarding  themselves  and  life  from  a  permanently  dra- 
matic standpoint.  Wasn't  it  worth  while  to  have  been 
away  for  a  time,  since  absence  had  so  heightened  his 
appreciation  of  racial  contrasts  and  power  of  recognizing 
them? 

And  there  he  paused  in  his  paean.  For  on  second 
thoughts,  were  these  psychologic  determinations  so  well 
worth  the  practical  cost  of  them  ?  Is  gain  of  the  abstract 
ever  worth  loss  in  the  concrete?  His  thought  turned 
with  impatience  to  Stourmouth,  to  the  Tower  House  and 
its  inhabitants,  and  to  the  loss  of  precious  time  which  de- 
votion to  their  affairs  had,  in  point  of  fact,  caused  him. 
Resultant  appreciation  of  psychologic  phenomena  seemed 
but  a  meager  recompense  for  such  expenditure.  For 
this  absence  had  made  him  lose  ground  in  relation  to 
Madame  St.  Leger.  Miss  Beauchamp  intimated  as 
much;   intimated,  too,  that  while  he  lost  ground  others 

168 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

had  gained  it,  had  done  their  best  to  jump  his  claim,  so 
to  speak,  and  had,  in  a  measure  at  least,  succeeded — 
take  Mademoiselle  Zelie  de  Gand,  for  example. 

Whereupon  Adrian  ceased  to  take  any  interest,  philo- 
sophic or  otherwise,  in  the  wonderful  midnight  streets 
and  midnight  people;  becoming  himself  actively,  even 
aggressively,  individualist,  as  he  brushed  his  way  through 
the  throng,  his  expression  the  reverse  of  urbane  and  his 
pace  almost  headlong. 

For  who,  in  the  devil's  name,  had  dared  give  that 
much-discussed,  plausible,  very  astute  and  clever,  also 
very  much  discredited  arrivist  and  novelist — Zelie  de 
Gand — an  introduction  to  Madame  St.  Leger?  Miss 
Beauchamp  owned  to  a  suspicion.  And  then,  yes,  of 
course  he  remembered  last  year  meeting  the  great 
Zelie  at  Rene  Dax's  studio!  Remembered,  too,  how 
Rene  had  pressed  a  short  story  of  hers  upon  him  for 
publication  in  the  Review;  and  had  sulked  for  a  week 
afterward  when — not  without  laughter — he  had  pro- 
nounced the  said  story  quite  clearly  unprintable.  Did 
Rene,  after  all,  represent  the  further  reason,  not  as 
aspirant  to  la  belle  Gabrielle's  thrice  -  sacred  hand 
indeed ;  but  as  her  mental  director,  inciting  her  to  throw 
in  her  lot  with  agitators  and  extremists,  Feminists, 
Futurists,  and  such-like  pestilent  persons — enemies  of 
marriage  and  of  the  family,  of  moral  and  spiritual  au- 
thority, of  all  sane  canons  of  art,  music  and  literature, 
reckless  anarchists  in  thought  and  purpose  if  not,  through 
defective  courage,  in  actual  deed?  Was  this  what 
Anastasia  Beauchamp  hinted  at?  Was  it  against  risk 
of  such  abominable  stabling  of  swine  in  his  own  par- 
ticular Holy  of  Holies — for  the  young  man's  anger  and 
alarm,  now  thoroughly  aroused,  tended  to  express  them- 
selves in  no  measured  language — she  did  her  best  to 
warn  him? 

Again,  as  earlier  that  day,  a  necessity  for  immediate 
and  practical  action  laid  hold  on  him.     Delay  became 

169 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

not  only  intolerable,  but  unpardonable.  He  must  know, 
and  he  must  also  prevent  this  campaign  of  defilement 
and  outrage  going  further.  Wherefore  he  bolted  into 
the  first  empty  cab,  had  himself  whirled  to  the  Boulevard 
du  Montparnasse,  and  projected  himself,  bomb-like, 
bursting  with  protest  and  indignation,  into  Rene*  Dax's 
great,  dusky,  white-walled  studio;  to  find,  in  the  stillness, 
nothing  more  pertinent  to  the  matter  in  hand  than  the 
gentle,  gray  lemur  sitting  in  its  scarlet-painted  baby's 
chair  before  the  fire,  the  orange-and-black  blotched 
newts  and  small  ancient  tortoises  crawling  upon  the  rock- 
work  of  the  little  fountain,  while  in  the  glass  tank  the 
gleaming  fishes  swam  lazily  to  and  fro.  Of  the  owner 
of  this  quaint  menagerie  no  signs  were  visible. 

But  neither  Rene's  absence  nor  the  presence  of  his 
queer  associates  held  Adrian's  attention  more  than  a 
few  seconds;  for,  upon  an  easel  facing  him  as  he  entered, 
placed  where  the  light  of  the  hanging  lamps  fell  strongest, 
was  a  drawing  in  red  chalk,  which  at  once  fed  his  anger 
by  its  subject  and  commanded  his  unqualified  admira- 
tion by  its  consummate  beauty  and  art. 

Nearly  half  life-size,  the  figure  poised,  the  head  slightly 
inclined,  proudly  yet  lovingly,  toward  the  delicious 
child  she  carried  on  her  arm,  Gabrielle  St.  Leger  stepped 
toward  him,  as  on  air,  from  off  the  tall  panel  of  ivory- 
tinted  cartridge  paper.  The  attitude  was  precisely  that 
in  which  he  had  seen  her  this  afternoon,  when  she  told 
Rene*  Dax  the  "door  should  remain  open  since  little 
Bette  wished  it."  The  two  figures  were  rendered  with 
a  suavity,  yet  precision,  of  treatment,  a  noble  assurance 
of  line  and  faithfulness  of  detail,  little  short  of  miraculous 
considering  the  time  in  which  the  drawing  must  have 
been  executed. — Yes,  it  was  la  belle  Gabrielle  to  the 
life;  and  alive — how  wonderfully  alive !  The  tears  came 
into  the  young  man's  eyes,  so  deeply  did  this  counterfeit 
presentment  of  her  move  him,  and  so  very  deeply  did  he 
love  her.    He  noted,  in  growing  amazement,  little  details, 

170 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

even  little  blemishes,  dear  to  his  heart  as  a  lover,  since 
these  differentiated  her  beauty  from  that  of  other  beau- 
tiful women,  giving  the  original,  the  intimate  and  finely 
personal  note. 

And  then  anger  shook  him  more  sharply  than  ever,  for 
how  dare  any  man,  save  himself,  note  these  infinitely 
precious,  because  exclusively  personal,  touches?  How 
dare  Rene  observe,  still  more  how  dare  he  record  them  ? 
His  offense  was  rank;  since  to  do  so  constituted  an  un- 
pardonable liberty,  a  gross  intrusion  upon  her  individ- 
uality. Rene*  knew  too  much,  quite  too  much,  and,  for 
the  moment,  Adrian  was  assailed  by  a  very  simple  and 
comprehensive  desire  to  kill  him. 

But  now  a  wave  of  humiliation,  salt  and  bitter,  sub- 
merged this  unhappy  lover.  For  not  only  was  that  little 
devil  of  a  Tadpole's  drawing  a  masterpiece  in  its  realiza- 
tion of  the  outward  aspect  of  Gabrielle  St.  Leger,  but  of 
insight  into  the  present  workings  of  her  mind  and  heart. 
Had  not  he  apprehended  and  set  forth  here,  with  the 
clarity  and  force  of  undeniable  genius,  just  all  that  which 
Anastasia  Beauchamp  had  tried  to  tell  him — Adrian 
Savage — about  her?  What  he,  Adrian,  notwithstand- 
ing the  greatness  of  his  devotion,  fumbled  over  and  mis- 
interpreted, Rene*  grasped  unaided,  and  thus  superbly 
chronicled!  For,  here  indeed,  to  quote  Anastasia,  Ga- 
brielle's  eyes  were  turned  toward  the  future  and  the 
strange  unrestful  wind — the  wind  of  Modernity — which 
blows  from  out  the  future,  was  upon  her  face;  with  the 
result  that  her  expression  and  bearing  were  exalted,  a 
noble  going  forth  to  meet  fate  in  them,  she  herself  as 
one  consecrated,  at  once  the  embodiment  and  exponent 
of  some  compelling  idea,  the  leader  of  some  momentous 
movement,  the  elect  spokeswoman  of  a  new  and  tre- 
mendous age. 

Beholding  all  which,  poor  Adrian's  spirits  descended 
with  most  disintegrating  velocity  into  his  boots,  and 
miserably  camped  at  that  abject  level.  For  though  he 
12  J7i 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

might  declare,  and  very  honestly  believe,  the  idea  in 
question,  the  movement  in  question,  to  be  so  much 
moonshine,  and  the  Spirit  of  the  Age  a  rank  impostor, 
how  did  he  propose  to  convince  Madame  St.  Leger  of 
that  ?  The  inquiry  brought  him  up  as  against  a  brick 
wall.  Yes,  Miss  Beauchamp  had  been  rather  cruelly 
right  when  she  told  him  his  work  was  cut  out  for  him 
and  would  prove  a  mighty  tough  job.  For  what,  calmly 
considered,  had  he,  after  all,  to  offer  as  against  those 
alluring  and  immense  perspectives? — Really,  when  he 
came  to  ask  himself,  it  made  him  blush.  —  Only  an 
agreeable,  fairly  talented  and  well-conditioned  young 
man — that  was  all;  and  marriage — marriage,  an  old 
story  to  Gabrielle,  a  commonplace  affair  about  which 
she  already  knew  everything  that  there  is  to  know.  Of 
course  she  didn't  know  everything  about  it,  he  went  on, 
plucking  up  a  little  spirit  again.  Hers  had  been  a  mar- 
riage of  convenience;  a  marriage  of  reason.  Poor 
Horace  was  by  a  whole  generation  her  senior.  Whereas, 
in  the  present  case,  it  all  would  be  so  different — a  great 
and  exclusive  passion,  et  cetera,  et  cetera.  He  would  have 
liked  to  wax  eloquent,  descanting  upon  that  difference 
and  its  resultant  illuminating  values.  But  his  eloquence 
stuck  in  his  throat  somehow.  Himself  as  a  husband — 
humor  compelled  him  to  own,  with  a  pretty  sharp  stab 
of  mortification,  this  a  rather  stale  and  meager  pro- 
gramme as  alternative  to  cloudy  splendors  of  self-con- 
secration to  the  mighty  purposes  of  Modernity  and  the 
Spirit  of  the  Age. 

"She  is  very  beautiful,  is  she  not,  my  Madonna  of  the 
Future?" 

Rend  Dax  asked  the  question  in  soft,  confidential 
accents.  He  stood  at  Adrian's  elbow,  clothed  in  a 
scarlet  Japanese  silk  smoking-suit.  Upon  his  neat  bare 
feet  he  wore  a  pair  of  black  Afghan  sandals.  Uttering 
little  loving,  crooning  cries,  the  gray  lemur  balanced 
itself  upon  his  shoulders,  clasping  his  great  domed  head 

172 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

with  thin  furry  arms  and  furry-backed,  black-palmed 
hands,  the  finger-tips  of  which  just  met  upon  the  center 
of  his  forehead. 

"I  have  been  watching,  from  behind  the  screen,  the 
effect  she  produced  on  you.  I  have  given  up  going  to 
bed,  you  see.  I  wrap  myself  in  blankets  and  quilts  and 
sleep  here — when  I  do  sleep — upon  one  of  the  divans. 
It  is  more  artistic.  It  is  simpler.  The  bed,  when  you 
come  to  consider  it,  is,  like  the  umbrella,  the  mark  of  the 
bourgeois,  of  the  bourgeoise  and  of  all  their  infected 
progeny.  It  represents,  as  you  may  say,  the  battle-cry 
of  middle-class  civilization.  The  domestic  hearth  ?  No, 
no.  The  domestic  bed.  How  far  more  scientific  and 
philosophic  a  definition!  Therefore  I  abjure  it. — So  I 
was  lying  there  on  the  divan  in  meditation.  I  am  pre- 
paring illustrations  for  an  edition  de  luxe  of  Les  Conies 
Drolatiques.  It  is  not  designed  for  family  reading. 
It  will  probably  be  printed  in  Belgium  and  sold  at  Port 
Said.  I  lie  on  my  back.  I  cover  my  face,  thus  isolating 
myself  from  contemplation  of  surrounding  objects,  so 
that  my  imagination  may  play  freely  around  those 
agreeable  tales.  In  the  midst  of  my  meditation  I  heard 
you  burst  in.  At  first  I  felt  annoyed.  Then  I  arose 
silently  and  watched  the  effect  this  portrait  produced  on 
you.  I  was  rewarded;  for  it  knocked  the  bluster  pretty 
effectually  out  of  you,  eh,  mon  vieux?  I  saw  you  droop, 
grow  dejected,  pull  your  beard,  wipe  your  eyes,  eh? 
And  you  deserved  all  that,  for  your  manner  was  offensive 
this  afternoon.  You  treated  me  disrespectfully.  Have 
you  now  come  to  apologize?  It  would  be  only  decent 
you  should  do  so.  But  I  do  not  press  the  point.  I  can 
afford  to  be  magnanimous,  since,  in  any  case,  I  am  even 
with  you.     My  Madonna  is  my  revenge." 

"  I  did  not  come  to  apologize,  but  to  demand  explana- 
tion," Adrian  began,  hotly.  Then  his  tone  changed. 
Truly  he  was  very  unhappy,  very  heavy  of  heart.  "  You 
are  right,"  he  added.     "This  drawing  is  your  revenge." 

173 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"  You  do  not  like  my  drawing. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  find  it  glorious,  wonderful." 

"And  it  hurts  you?" 

"Yes,  it  hurts  me,"  he  answered  hoarsely,  backing 
away.     "I  hate  it." 

"I  am  so  glad,"  Rene"  said,  sweetly.  He  put  his  hand 
behind  his  scarlet  back,  and  tweaked  the  tip  of  the 
lemur's  long  furry  tail  affectionately. 

"  You  hear,  you  rejoice  with  me,  oh,  venerable  Aris- 
tides!"  he  murmured. 

To  which  the  little  creature  replied  by  clasping  his 
head  more  tightly  and  making  strange,  coaxing  noises. 

"  But  there, — for  the  moment  my  Madonna  has  done 
precisely  what  I  asked  of  her,  so  now  let  us  talk  about 
something  else,  mon  vieux,  something  less  controversial. 
Why  not?  For  here,  after  all,  she  is  fixed,  my  Madonna. 
She  can't  run  away,  happily.  We  can  always  return  and, 
though  she  is  mine,  I  will  permit  you  to  take  another 
look  at  her.  So — well — do  you  remark  how  I  have 
changed  my  decorative  scheme  since  you  last  visited 
me?  Is  it  original,  startling,  eh?  That  is  what  I  in- 
tended. Again  I  felt  theneed  to  simplify.  I  called  for 
plasterers,  painters,  upholsterers.  When  they  will  be 
paid  I  haven't  a  conception;  but  that  is  a  contemptible 
detail.  I  rushed  them.  I  harried  them.  I  drove  them 
before  me  like  a  flock  of  geese,  a  troop  of  asses.  '  Work,' 
I  screamed,  '  work.  Delay  is  suffocation  to  my  imagina- 
tion. This  transformation  must  be  effected  instantly.' 
For  suddenly  color  sickened  me.  I  comprehended  what 
a  fraud,  what  a  subterfuge  and  inanity  it  is.  Form 
alone  matters,  alone  is  permanent  and  essential.  Color 
bears  to  form  the  same  relation  which  emotion  bears  to 
reason,  which  sensation  bears' to  intellect.  It  represents 
an  attitude  rather  than  an  entity.  I  recognized  it  as 
adventitious,  accidental,  unscientific,  hysterical.  So  I 
had  them  all  washed  out,  ripped  off,  obliterated,  my 
tender,  tearful  blues  and  greens,  my  caressing  pinks,  my 

i74 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

luscious  mauves  and  purples,  my  rapturously  bilious, 
sugar-sweet  yellows,  all  my  adorably  morbid  florescence 
of  putrifaction  in  neutral-tinted  semi-tones,  and  limited 
my  scheme  to  this  harshly  symbolic  triad.  See  every- 
where, everywhere,  black,  white,  red — these  three  always 
and  only — beating  upon  my  brain,  feeding  my  eyes  with 
thoughts  of  darkness,  night,  death,  the  bottomless  pit, 
despair,  iniquity;  of  light,  day,  snow,  the  colorless  ether, 
virtue,  the  child's  blank  soul,  immaculate  sterility.  And 
then  red — red,  the  horrid  whipper-in  and  huntsman  of  us 
all,  meaning  life,  fire,  lust,  pain,  carnage,  sex,  revolution 
and  war,  scarlet-lipped  scorn  and  mockery  —  the  raw, 
gaping,  ever-bleeding,  ever-breeding  wound,  in  short, 
upon  the  body  of  the  Cosmos  which  we  call  Humanity." 

The  young  man's  affectation  of  imperturbability  for 
once  deserted  him.  He  was  shaken  by  the  force  of  his 
own  speech.  His  voice  rose,  vibrating  with  passion, 
taking  on,  indeed,  an  almost  maniacal  quality,  highly 
distressing  to  Adrian  and  altogether  terrifying  to  the 
lemur,  which  moaned  audibly  and  shivered  as  it  clutched 
at  his  forehead. 

"Get  down,  Aristides,"  he  cried  with  sudden  childish 
petulance.  "Unclasp  your  hands.  You  scratch.  You 
hurt  me.  Go  back  to  your  little  chair.  I  am  tired.  I 
have  worked  too  hard.  The  back  of  my  head  stabs 
with  pain.     I  suffer,  I  suffer  so  badly." 

He  came  close  to  Adrian,  who,  his  nerves  too  very 
much  on  edge,  still  stood  before  the  noble  drawing  of 
Gabrielle  St.  Leger. 

"I  am  not  well,"  he  said,  plaintively.  "Certainly  I 
have  overworked,  and  it  is  all  your  fault.  Yet  listen, 
nion  vieux.  Your  affection  is  necessary  to  me.  There- 
fore do  not  let  us  quarrel.  I  own  you  enraged  me  this 
afternoon.     I  did  not  want  you  just  then." 

"Nor  I  you,"  Adrian  returned,  with  some  asperity. 

"And  your  manner  was  at  once  insufferably  brusque 
and  insufferably  possessive.     I  could  not  let  it  pass.     I 

175 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

felt  it  incumbent  upon  me  to  administer  correction. 
But  I  would  not  descend  to  anything  commonplace  in 
the  way  of  chastisement.  I  would  lay  an  ingenious 
trap  for  you.  I  came  straight  home.  I  seated  myself 
here.  I  set  up  this  panel,  and  I  drew,  and  drew,  and 
drew,  without  pause,  without  food,  in  a  tense  frenzy  of 
concentration,  of  recollection,  till  I  had  completed  this 
portrait.  I  was  possessed,  inspired.  Never  have  I 
worked  with  such  fury,  such  torment  and  ecstasy.  For 
I  had,  at  once,  to  assure  myself  of  your  sentiments  toward 
the  subject  of  that  picture,  and  to  read  you  a  lesson. 
I  had  to  prove  to  you  that  I,  too,  amount  to  something 
which  has  to  be  reckoned  with;  that  I,  too,  have  power." 

"You  have  commanding  power,"  Adrian  answered, 
bitterly.     "The  power  of  genius." 

"Then,  then,"  Rene"  Dax  cried,  "since  you  acknowl- 
edge my  power,  will  you  consent  to  leave  my  Madonna 
alone?  Will  you  consent  not  to  make  any  further  at- 
tempt to  interfere  between  her  and  me,  to  pay  court  to 
and  marry  her?" 

The  attack  in  its  directness  proved,  for  the  mo- 
ment, staggering.  Adrian  stood,  his  eyes  staring,  his 
mouth  half  open,  actually  recovering  his  breath,  which 
seemed  fairly  knocked  out  of  him  by  the  amazing  im- 
pudence of  this  proposition.  Yet  wasn't  it  perfectly  in 
the  part  ?  Wasn't  it  just  exactly  the  egregious  Tadpole 
all  over?  His  mind  swung  back  instinctively  to  scenes 
of  years  ago  in  play-ground,  class-room,  dormitory, 
when — while  though  himself  exasperated — he  had  inter- 
vened to  protect  Rend,  a  boy  brilliant  as  he  was  infuriat- 
ing, from  the  consequences  of  some  colossal  impertinence 
in  word  or  deed.  And  that  swing  back  to  recollection  of 
their  school-days  produced  in  Adrian  a  salutary  lessen- 
ing of  nervous  excitement,  restoring  his  self-confidence, 
focusing  his  outlook,  both  on  events  and  persons  to  a 
normal  perspective. 

"So  that  I  may  leave  the  stage  conveniently  clear  for 
176 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

you,  mon  petit  f"  he  inquired,  quite  good-temperedly. 
"No,  I  am  sorry,  but  I'm  afraid  I  cannot  consent  to  do 
anything  of  the  kind." 

And  then  he  moved  away  across  the  studio,  leaving  the 
egregious  Tadpole  to  digest  his  refusal.  For  he  did  not 
want  to  quarrel,  either.  Far  from  it.  That  instinctive 
throw-back  into  their  school-boy  friendship  brought 
home  to  him  how  very  much  attached  to  this  wayward 
being  he  actually  was.  So  that,  of  all  things,  he  wanted 
to  avoid  a  quarrel,  if  such  avoidance  were  consonant 
with  restraint  of  Rene's  influence  in  a  certain  dear 
direction  and  development  of  his  own. 

"Nothing  will  turn  me  from  my  purpose,  mon  petit," 
he  said,  gently,  even  gaily,  over  his  shoulder.  "  Nothing 
— make  sure  of  that — nothing,  nobody,  past,  present,  or 
to  come." 

He  proceeded,  with  slightly  ostentatious  composure, 
to  study  the  dado  of  pictured  figures  rioting  along  the 
surface  of  the  white  distempered  walls.  He  had  de- 
livered his  ultimatum.  Very  soon  he  meant  to  depart, 
for  it  was  no  use  attempting  to  hold  further  intercourse 
with  Rene*  to-night.  Once  you  brought  him  up  short, 
like  this,  for  a  greater  or  lesser  period  he  was  certain  to 
sulk.  It  was  wisest  to  let  him  have  his  sulk  out.  And 
— his  eyes  growing  accustomed  to  the  dusky  light — good 
heavens,  how  superbly  clever,  how  grossly  humorous 
those  pictured  figures  were!  Was  there  any  draftsman 
living  who  could  compare  with  Rene*  Dax?  No,  de- 
cidedly he  didn't  want  to  quarrel  with  the  creature.  He 
only  wanted  to  prevent  his  confusing  certain  issues  and 
doing  harm.  Yet,  as  he  passed  from  group  to  group, 
from  one  outrageous  witticism  to  another,  the  difficulty 
of  maintaining  an  equable  attitude  increased  upon  him. 
For  it  was  hateful  to  remember  that  the  same  hand 
and  brain  which  had  projected  that  heroic  portrait  of 
Madame  St.  Leger  was  responsible  for  these  indecencies 
as  well.     Looking  at  some  of  these,  thinking  of  that,  he 

177 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

could  have  found  it  in  his  heart,  he  feared,  to  take 
Master  Rend  by  the  throat  and  put  an  end  to  his  drawing 
for  ever,  so  atrocious  a  profanity  did  such  coexistence, 
such,  in  a  sense,  correlation  appear. 

And  then,  moving  on  again,  he  started  and  drew  back  in 
absolute  consternation.  For  there,  right  in  front  of  him, 
covering  the  wall  for  a  space  of  two  yards  or  more,  he 
came  on  a  series  of  sketches — some  dashed  in  in  charcoal, 
some  carefully  finished  in  red  and  black  chalk — of 
Joanna  Smyrthwaite. — Joanna,  arrayed  in  man's  cloth- 
ing, a  slovenly,  ragged  jacket  suit,  sagging  from  her  thin 
limbs  and  angular  shoulders;  she  bareheaded,  moreover, 
her  hair  cropped,  her  face  telling  of  drink  and  dissipa- 
tion, loose-lipped,  repulsive  to  the  point  of  disgust  in 
its  weakness  and  profligate  misery,  her  attitudes  de- 
graded, almost  bestial  as  she  cringed  on  all  fours  or  lay 
heaped  together  like  so  much  shot  rubbish. 

Adrian  put  his  hands  over  his  eyes.  Looked  again. 
Turned  indignantly  to  demand  an  answer  to  this  hideous 
riddle.  But  his  host  had  disappeared.  Only  the  gray 
lemur  sat  in  its  scarlet-painted  baby's  chair  before  the 
fire;  and  from  off  the  tall  white  panel  Gabrielle  St. 
Leger,  carrying  her  child  on  her  arm,  stepped  forth  to 
meet  the  Future,  while  the  unrestful  wind  which  blows 
from  out  the  Future — the  fateful  wind  of  Modernity — 
played  upon  her  beloved  face. 


Ill 

THE   OTHER   SIDE 


CHAPTER  I 

RECORDING    A    BRAVE    MAN'S    EFFORT    TO    CULTIVATE    HIS 
PRIVATE    GARDEN 

JOSEPH  CHALLONER  telephoned  up  to  Heather- 
leigh  from  his  office  in  Stourmouth  that,  being  de- 
tained by  business,  he  should  dine  in  town  to-night. 
This  seemed  to  him  the  safest  way  to  manage  it,  since 
you  never  could  be  quite  sure  how  far  your  servants 
didn't  shadow  you. 

He  had  put  off  dealing  with  the  matter  in  question 
from  day  to  day,  and  week  to  week,  because,  in  plain 
English,  he  funked  it.  True,  this  was  not  his  first  ex- 
perience of  the  kind ;  but,  looking  back  upon  other — never 
mind  about  the  exact  number  of  them — other  experi- 
ences of  like  nature,  this  struck  him  as  very  much  the 
most  unpleasant  of  the  lot.  His  own  moral  and  social 
standpoint  had  changed;  there  perhaps — he  hoped  so — 
was  the  reason.  In  more  senses  than  one  he  had  "come 
up  higher,"  so  that  anything  even  distantly  approaching 
scandal  was  actively  alarming  to  him,  giving  him — as  he 
expressed  it — "the  goose-skin  all  over."  Yet,  funk  or 
no  funk,  the  thing  had  to  be  seen  to.  Further  shilly- 
shallying was  not  permissible.  The  by-election  for  the 
Baughurst  Park  Ward,  vacant  through  the  impending 
retirement  of  Mr.  Pottinger,  was  imminent.  Challoner 
had  offered  himself  as  a  candidate.  The  seat  was  well 
worth  gaining,  since  the  Baughurst  Park  Ward  was  the 
richest  and,  in  many  respects,  most  influential  in  the 
borough.  To  represent  it  was,  with  a  little  adroit 
manipulation,  to  control  a  very  large  amount  of  capital 

181 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

available  for  public  purposes.  Moreover,  in  a  year  or 
so  it  must  inevitably  lead  to  the  mayoralty ;  and  Joseph 
Challoner  fully  intended  one  of  these  days  to  be  Mayor 
of  Stourmouth.  Not  only  did  the  mayoralty,  in  itself, 
confer  much  authority  and  local  distinction,  but  it 
offered  collateral  opportunrties  of  self -advancement. 
Upon  these  Challoner  had  long  fixed  his  thoughts,  so 
that  already  he  had  fully  considered  what  course  of 
action,  in  the  present,  promised  the  most  profitable  line 
of  investment  in  view  of  that  coveted  future. 

Should  he  push  the  construction  of  the  new  under- 
cliff  drive,  for  instance?  But,  as  he  argued,  at  most 
you  could  invite  a  Duke  or  Field-Marshal  to  perform  the 
opening  ceremony — the  latter  for  choice,  since  it  gives 
legitimate  excuse  for  the  military  display,  always  pro- 
ductive of  enthusiasm  in  a  conspicuously  non-combatant 
population  such  as  that  of  Stourmouth.  Unfortunately 
Dukes  and  Field-Marshals,  though  very  useful  when, 
socially  speaking,  you  could  not  get  anything  better, 
were  not  altogether  up  to  Challoner's  requirements.  He 
aspired,  he  in  fact  languished,  to  entertain  Royalty. 
But  under-cliff  drives  were  no  use  in  that  connection, 
only  justifying  a  little  patriotic  beating  of  drums  to  the 
tune  of  coast  defense,  and  incidental  trotting-out  of  the 
hard -worked  German  invasion  bogey.  The  first  came 
too  near  party  politics,  the  second  too  near  family  rela- 
tionships, to  be  acceptable  to  the  highest  in  the  land. 
No,  as  he  very  well  saw,  you  must  sail  on  some  other 
tack,  cloaking  your  designs  with  the  much-covering 
mantle  of  charity  if  you  proposed  successfully  to  exploit 
princes. 

And,  after  all,  what  simpler?  Was  not  Stourmouth 
renowned  as  a  health  resort,  and  are  not  hospitals 
the  accredited  highroad  to  royal  favor?  A  hospital, 
evidently;  and,  since  it  is  always  safest  to  specialize — 
that  enables  you  to  make  play  with  scare-inducing 
statistics  and   impressive  scientific   formulae,   flavoring 

182 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

them  here  and  there  with  the  sentimental  anecdotal 
note — clearly  a  hospital  for  the  cure  of  tuberculosis — 
nothing  just  now  more  fashionable,  nothing  more  popu- 
lar! Really,  it  suited  him  to  a  tee,  for  had  not  his  own 
poor  little  wife  fallen  a  victim  to  the  fell  disease  in 
question?  And  had  not  he — here  Challoner  just  man- 
aged not  to  put  his  tongue  in  his  cheek — had  not  he  re- 
mained, through  all  these  long,  long  years,  affectingly 
faithful  to  her  memory?  Therefore,  not  only  upon  the 
platform,  but  during  the  private  pocket-pickings  he 
projected  among  the  wealthy  residents  of  the  Baughurst 
Park  Ward,  he  could  give  a  personal  turn  to  his  appeal 
by  alluding  feelingly  to  the  cutting  short  of  his  own  early 
married  happiness,  to  the  pathetic  wreck  of  "love's  young 
dream"  all  through  the  operation  of  that  terrible  scourge, 
consumption.  Yes,  quite  undoubtedly,  tuberculosis  was, 
as  he  put  it,  "the  ticket." 

He  remembered,  with  a  movement  of  active  gratitude 
toward  his  Maker — or  was  it  perhaps  toward  that  quite 
other  deity,  the  God  of  Chance,  so  ardently  worshiped 
by  all  arrivists? — the  big  stretch  of  common,  Wytch 
Heath,  just  beyond  the  new  West  Stourmouth  Ceme- 
tery, recently  thrown  on  the  market  and  certain  to  go 
at  a  low  figure.  Lying  so  high  and  dry,  the  air  up  there 
must  be  remarkably  bracing — fit  to  cut  you  in  two, 
indeed,  when  the  wind  was  northerly.  Clearly  it  was  a 
crying  shame  to  waste  so  much  salubrity  upon  the  dead ! 
True,  Stourmouth  already  bristled  with  sanatoria  of 
sorts.  But  these  were,  for  the  most  part,  defective  in 
construction  or  obsolete  in  equipment;  whereas  his, 
Challoner's,  new  Royal  Hospital  should  be  absolutely  up 
to  date,  furnished,  regardless  of  expense,  in  accordance 
with  the  latest  costly  fad  of  the  latest  pathological 
faddist.  No  extravagance  should  be  debarred,  while, 
incidentally,  handsome  measure  of  commissions  and 
perquisites  should  be  winked  at  so  as  to  keep  the  staff, 
both  above  and  below  stairs,  in  good  humor.     Salaries 

183 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

must  be  on  the  same  extensive  scale  as  the  rest. 
Later,  when  a  certain  personal  end  had  been  gained,  it 
would  be  plenty  time  enough  to  placate  protesting  sub- 
scribers by  discovering  reprehensible  waste,  and  preach- 
ing reform  and  retrenchment. 

Finally,  Royalty  should  be  humbly  prayed  to  declare 
the  record-breaking  institution  open,  during  his,  Chal- 
loner's,  tenure  of  office.  He  licked  his  lips,  not  figura- 
tively but  literally,  thinking  of  it.  "Our  public-spirited 
and  philanthropic  Mayor,  to  whose  generous  expenditure 
of  both  time  and  money,  combined  with  his  untiring 
zeal  in  the  service  of  his  suffering  fellow-creatures,  we  are 
mainly  indebted  for  the  inception  and  completion  of  this 
truly  magnificent  charity,"  et  cetera,  et  cetera.  Let 
them  pile  on  the  butter,  bless  them — he  could  put  up 
with  any  amount  of  that  kind  of  basting — until  Royalty, 
impressed  alike  by  the  magnitude  of  his  altruistic  labors 
and  touched  by  the  tragedy  of  his  early  sorrow — for  the 
sentimental  personal  chord  should  here  be  struck  again 
softly — would  feel  constrained  to  bestow  honors  on  so 
deeply  tried  and  meritorious  a  subject.  "Sir  Joseph 
Challoner." — He  turned  the  delicious  phrase  over  in  his 
mouth,  as  a  small  boy  turns  a  succulent  lollipop,  to  get 
the  full  value  and  sweetness  out  of  it.  He  amplified  the 
lucious  morsel,  almost  blushingly.  "  Sir  Joseph  and  Lady 
Challoner" — not  the  poor  little  first  wife,  well  under- 
stood, with  the  fatal  stamp  of  disease  and  still  more 
fatal  stamp  of  her  father's  shop  upon  her,  reminiscences 
of  whose  premature  demise  had  contributed  so  tactfully 
to  the  realization  of  his  present  splendor;  but  the  second, 
the  coming  wife,  in  the  serious  courting  of  whom  he 
thirsted  to  embark  immediately,  since  she  offered  such 
conspicuous  contrast  to  the  said  poor  little  first  one 
both  in  solid  fortune  and  social  opportunity. 

Only,  unluckily,  before  these  bright  unworldly  dreams 
could  even  approximately  be  translated  into  fact,  there 
was  a  nasty  awkward  bit  of  rooting  up  and  clearing  out 

184 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

to  be  done  in,  so  to  speak,  Challoner's  own  private  back 
garden.  And  it  was  with  a  view  to  effecting  such  clear- 
ance, quietly,  unobserved  and  undisturbed,  that  he 
elected  to-night  to  eat  a  third-rate  dinner  at  an  obscure 
commercial  tavern  in  Stourmouth,  where  recognition  was 
improbable,  rather  than  a  first-rate  one  in  his  own  com- 
fortable dining-room  at  Heatherleigh. 

After  the  consummation  of  that  unattractive  meal,  he 
took  a  tram  up  from  The  Square  to  the  top  of  Hill  Street, 
where  this  joins  the  Barryport  Road  about  three- 
quarters  of  a  mile  short  of  Baughurst  Park  and  the  County 
Gates.  Here,  alighting,  he  turned  into  the  maze  of 
roads,  bordered  by  villas  and  small  lodging-houses  in- 
terspersed with  undeveloped  plots  of  building  land,  which 
extends  from  the  left  of  the  Barryport  Road  to  the  edge 
of  the  West  Cliff.  The  late  March  evening  was  fine  and 
keen,  and  Challoner,  whose  large  frame  cried  out  for 
exercise  after  a  long  day  of  sedentary  employment, 
would  have  relished  the  walk  in  the  moist  salt  air  had 
it  not  been  for  that  disagreeable  bit  of  back-garden 
clearing  work  looming  up  as  the  ultimate  purpose  of  it. 

In  the  recesses  of  his  mind,  moreover,  lurked  an  un- 
easy suspicion  that  he  would  really  be  very  much  less  of 
a  cur  if  he  felt  a  good  deal  more  of  one.  This  made  him 
savage,  since  it  appeared  a  reflection  upon  the  purity  of 
his  motives  and  the  solid  worth  of  his  character.  He 
stated  the  case  to  himself,  as  he  had  stated  it  any  number 
of  times  already,  and  found  it  a  convincingly  clear  one. 
Still  that  irritating  suspicion  of  insufficient  self-disgust 
continued  to  haunt  him.  He  ran  through  the  well-worn 
arguments  again,  pleading  the  justice  of  his  own  cause 
to  his  own  conscience.  For,  when  all  is  said  and  done, 
how  can  any  man  possessing  an  average  allowance  of 
susceptibility  resist  a  pretty,  showy  woman  if  she  throws 
herself  at  his  head  ?  And  Mrs.  Gwynnie  had  very  much 
thrown  herself  at  his  head,  pertinaciously  coaxed,  ad- 
mired and   flattered  him.     Whatever  had  taken  place 

185 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

was  more  than  half  her  doing — before  God  it  was.  He 
might  have  been  weak,  might  have  been  a  confounded 
fool  even;  but  then,  hadn't  every  man,  worth  the  name, 
a  soft  side  to  him?  Take  all  your  famous  heroes  of 
history — weren't  there  funny  little  tales  about  every  one 
of  them,  from  the  Royal  Psalmist  downward?  If  he, 
Challoner,  had  been  a  fool,  he  could  quote  plenty  of 
examples  of  that  particular  style  of  folly  among  the  most 
aristocratic  company.  And,  looking  at  the  actual  facts, 
wasn't  the  woman  most  to  blame?  Hadn't  she  run 
after  him  just  all  she  knew  how?  Hadn't  she  subjected 
him  to  a  veritable  persecution  ? 

But  now  Challoner  found  himself  at  the  turn  into 
Silver  Chine  Road,  the  long,  yellow-gray  web  of  which 
meandered  away  through  the  twilight,  small  detached 
houses  set  in  little  gardens  ranged  on  either  side  of  it 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  the  walls  of  them  shrouded  by 
creepers,  and  their  lower  windows— where  lights  glowed 
faintly  through  muslin  curtains  and  drawn  blinds 
— masked  by  luxuriant  growth  of  arbutus,  escallonia, 
euonymus,  myrtle  and  bay.  Now  and  again  a  solitary 
Scotch  fir,  relic  of  the  former  moorland,  raised  its  dense 
crown,  velvet  black,  against  the  sulphur-stained  crystal 
of  the  western  sky.  Stourmouth  is  nothing  if  not  well- 
groomed  and  neat,  so  that  roads,  fences,  lawns  and 
houses  looked  brushed  up,  polished  and  dusted  as  some 
show-case  exhibit.  Only  a  misanthropic  imagination 
could  suppose  questionable  doings  or  primitive  passions 
sheltering  behind  those  tidy,  clean-pinafored,  self- 
respecting  gray  and  red  house-fronts,  in  their  setting  of 
trim  turf,  beds  of  just-opening  snowdrops  and  crocuses, 
and  fragrant  glossy-leaved  shrubs. 

Joseph  Challoner  drew  up  and  stood,  in  large  vexation 
and  worry,  contemplating  the  pleasant,  well-to-do  pros- 
pect. The  alert  calm  of  an  early  spring  evening  held  the 
whole  scene.  Faintly,  in  the  distance,  he  could  hear  a 
long-drawn  murmur  of  wind  in  the  Baughurst  woods 

1 86 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

and  the  rhythmic  plunge  of  the  sea.  And  he  was  aware 
that — still  to  employ  his  own  not  very  graceful  vernac- 
ular— he  funked  the  business  in  hand,  consciously  and 
very  thoroughly  funked  it.  He  had  all  the  mind  in  the 
world  to  retrace  his  steps,  board  the  tram  again  and  get 
home  to  Heatherleigh.  He  took  off  his  hat,  hoping  the 
chill,  moist  air  might  cool  his  tall  brick-dust-red  face 
and  bare  head,  while  he  fenced  thus  grimly  with  inde- 
cision. For  it  had  come  to  that — he  had  grown  so  igno- 
miniously  chicken-livered — had  he  the  pluck  to  go  on  or 
should  he  throw  up  the  game?  Let  the  whole  show 
slide,  in  short — Baughurst  Park  Ward,  record-breaking 
hospital,  probable  mayoralty,  possible  knighthood, 
wealthy  second  wife,  whose  standing  and  ample  fortune 
would  lift  him  to  the  top  of  the  best  society  Stourmouth 
could  offer — and  all  for  the  very  inadequate  reason  that 
a  flimsy,  flirtatious,  impecunious  little  Anglo-Indian 
widow  had  elected  to  throw  her  bonnet  over  the  wind- 
mills for  his  sake  ?  To  Challoner  it  seemed  hard,  beastly 
hard,  he  should  be  placed  in  such  a  fix.  How  could  he 
be  certain,  moreover,  that  it  was  for  his  sake,  and  not 
mainly  for  her  own,  she  had  sent  that  precious  bit 
of  millinery  flying?  What  assurance  had  he  that  it 
wasn't  a  put-up  job  to  entangle  and  land  him,  not  for 
love  of  him  himself,  of  what  he  was,  but  for  love  of  what 
he'd  got? 

Challoner  dragged  his  handkerchief  out  of  his  shirt- 
cuff  and  wiped  his  forehead.  Of  all  his  amatory  ex- 
periences this  one  did,  without  question,  "take  the 
cake"  for  all-round  inconvenience  and  exasperation! 

Of  course,  he  went  on  again,  picking  up  the  thread  of 
the  argument,  if  he  could  be  convinced,  could  believe  in 
the  sincerity  of  her  affection,  be  certain  it  was  he,  him- 
self, whom  she  really  loved  and  wanted,  not  just 
Heatherleigh  and  a  decent  income,  that  would  make 
just  all  the  difference,  put  matters  on  an  absolutely 
different  footing  and  radically  alter  his  feeling  toward  her. 
13  l87 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

And  then,  with  a  horse-laugh,  he  spat  on  the  ground,  re- 
gardless of  the  Stourmouth  Borough  Council's  by-law  pro- 
hibiting "expectoration  in  a  public  place  under  penalty 
of  a  fine  not  exceeding  twenty  shillings."  The  lie  was  so 
transparent,  the  hypocrisy  so  glaring,  that,  although  no 
stickler  for  truth  where  the  truth  told  against  him,  he 
was  obliged  to  rid  himself  of  this  particular  violation  of 
it  in  some  open  and  practical  manner.  For  he  knew 
perfectly  well  that  her  love,  whether  for  the  man  or 
merely  for  his  possessions,  in  no  appreciable  degree 
affected  the  question.  Not  doubt  as  to  the  quality  or 
object  of  Mrs.  Gwynnie's  affections,  but  rank  personal 
cowardice  in  face  of  the  situation,  kept  him  standing 
here  in  this  contemptible  attitude  of  indecision  amid 
the  chill  sweetness  of  the  spring  dusk. 

Yet  that  coarse  outward  repudiation  of  inward  deceit, 
if  failing  to  make  him  a  better  man  morally,  had  emo- 
tionally, and  even  physically,  a  beneficial  effect.  It 
braced  him  somehow,  so  that  he  squared  his  shoulders, 
while  his  native  bullying  pluck,  his  capacity  of  cyni- 
cally measuring  himself  against  fact  and  taking  the  risks 
of  the  duel,  revived  in  him. 

For  this  shilly-shallying  didn't  pay.  And  it  wasn't 
like  him.  Every  man  has  a  soft  side  to  him — granted; 
but  he'd  be  hung  if  he  was  going  to  let  himself  turn  a 
softie  all  over!  The  smart  of  his  own  gibes  stimulated 
him  wonderfully,  so  that  in  the  pride  of  his  recovered 
strength  of  mind,  and  consciousness  of  his  brawny 
strength  of  body,  he  found  himself  growing  almost  senti- 
mentally sorry  for  the  fate  of  his  puny  adversary.  Poor 
little  soul,  perhaps  she  really  was  in  love  with  him! — 
Challoner  wiped  his  face  again  with  a  flourish.  Well, 
plenty  of  people  did  call  him  "a  splendid-looking  man"! 
All  the  same,  she'd  got  to  go  under.  She  must  be  rooted 
up  and  cleared  out.  He  was  sorry,  for  it's  always  a 
nasty  thing  for  a  woman  to  be  made  to  understand  she 
is  only  a  side-show  in  a  man's  life.     Only  if  he  meant 

1 88 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

to  stand  for  the  Baughurst  Park  Ward — and  unques- 
tionably he  did  now  mean  to  do  so — his  address  to  the 
electors  must  be  printed  and  distributed  and  his  canvass 
started  within  the  week.  Yes,  no  doubt  very,  very  sorry 
for  her,  still  he  was  bound  to  make  short  work  with  this 
rooting  up  and  clearing  out  of  poor  Mrs.  Gwynnie. 

Nor  did  his  election  supply  the  only  reason  against 
further  shilly-shally.  Here  Challoner  cleared  his  throat, 
while  the  brick-dust  of  his  complexion  deepened  to 
crimson.  It  was  funny  how  shy  the  thought  of  Margaret 
Smyrthwaite  always  turned  him!  But  when  once  the 
winding  up  of  old  Montagu  Smyrthwaite's  estate  was 
completed,  he  would  no  longer  have  a  legitimate  excuse 
for  dropping  in  at  the  Tower  House  at  odd  hours,  in- 
dulging in  nice  confidential  little  chats  with  Margaret 
in  the  blue  sitting-room  or  taking  a  tete-a-tete  stroll  with 
her  around  the  gardens  and  through  the  conservatories. 
Miss  Joanna  did  not  like  him,  he  was  sure  of  that.  She 
certainly  wouldn't  give  him  encouragement.  So  time 
pressed,  for  the  completion  of  the  winding  up  of  the  estate 
could  not  be  delayed  much  longer.  Montagu  Smyrth- 
waite had  left  his  affairs  in  quite  vexatiously  good  order, 
from  Challoner's  point  of  view,  thereby  obliging  the 
latter  to  expend  much  ingenuity  in  the  invention  of 
obstacles  to  the  completion  of  business.  His  object  was 
to  keep  Adrian  Savage  out  of  England  and  away  from  his 
cousins  as  long  as  possible.  But  the  young  man — with 
how  much  heartiness  Challoner  consigned  him  and  all 
his  works  and  ways  to  regions  infernal! — might  grow 
suspicious  and  run  over  from  Paris  just  to  hasten  matters. 
That  would  not  suit  Challoner's  little  game  in  the  least. 
He  must  make  certain  of  his  standing  with  Margaret 
before  that  most  unwelcome  descent  of  the  enemy. 

For  the  whole  matter  of  Adrian  Savage  had  become 
to  him  as  the  proverbial  red  rag  to  a  bull.  By  its  irri- 
tating associations  it  acted  very  sensibly  upon  him  now, 
causing  him  to  charge  down  the  road  headlong,  with  his 

189 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

heavy,  lunging  tread.  Had  Adrian  proved  a  bad  man  of 
business,  ignorant,  careless,  or  bungling,  Challoner  felt 
his  superiority  in  other  departments  might  have  been 
more  easily  stomached.  But  to  find  this  highly  polished 
man  of  the  world  as  smart  a  business  man  as  his  some- 
what unpolished  and  provincial  self  rubbed  him  very 
shrewdly  on  the  raw.  When,  with  an  eye  to  a  not  im- 
possible future,  he  essayed  so  to  jockey  affairs  as  to 
secure  some  advantage  to  Margaret  Smyrthwaite,  in  the 
disposition  of  her  father's  property,  Adrian  invariably 
detected  the  attempted  small  swindle  and  promptly, 
though  politely,  checkmated  it. 

Such  encounters  had  occurred  more  than  once;  and 
both  his  own  failure  and  Adrian's  adroitness  in  disposing 
of  them  rankled  so  much  still  that  Challoner  walked 
nearly  half  the  length  of  Silver  Chine  Road  absorbed  in 
disagreeable  remembrance.  Then  the  name  on  a  gate- 
post, which  happened  to  catch  his  eye,  acquainted  him 
with  the  hardly  less  disagreeable  fact  that  he  neared 
the  end  of  his  journey. 

Ferndale — and  he  went  on  repeating  the  names  of 
the  houses  as  he  passed  them,  mostly  by  rote,  oc- 
casionally refreshing  his  memory  where  the  light  per- 
mitted by  a  glance  at  gate  or  gate-post.  Ferndale, 
then  Ambleside,  The  Hollies,  St.  Miguel,  Killarney, 
followed  by  Castlebar,  The  Moorings,  Peshawar,  Mon 
Repos,  Clovelly.  And  next,  after  crossing  the  end  of 
St.  Cuthbert's  Road,  Leicester  Lodge,  Fairlawn,  Chats- 
worth,  Ben  Nevis,  Santander.  Less  than  a  year  ago 
these  same  names  had  been  to  him  as  mile-stones  on  love's 
pilgrimage,  each  one  of  which  brought  him  a  few  steps 
nearer  to  a  hotly  coveted  goal.  Now  he  waxed  sar- 
castic at  the  expense  of  their  far-fetched,  high-flown 
titles.  Take  Chatsworth,  for  instance — a  forty-flve- 
pound-a-year  house,  rates  and  taxes  included,  with,  at 
the  outside,  an  eighth  of  an  acre  of  garden  to  it — could 
snobbish  silliness  go  much  farther  ? 

190 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

But  here  was  Robin's  Rest,  capping  the  climax,  in 
respect  of  its  title,  by  vulgar  folly. 

Challoner's  large,  stiff -jointed  hands  came  down  roughly 
on  the  top  bar  of  the  little  white  gate.  He  waited  a 
few  seconds,  breathing  rather  stertorously. 

"Robin's  Rest — why  not  Joseph's  Coat?"  he  snarled, 
"a  coat  of  many  colors.  Convenient,  that,  when  you 
happen  to  want  to  turn  it,  perhaps!  Now,  no  more 
squish-squash.  Straight  ahead — go  in  and  win,  and 
my  best  wishes  to  you,  Sir  Joseph  Turncoat." 

With  that  he  swung  the  gate  open  and  tramped  up 
the  path  to  the  front  door,  a  certain  bullying  swagger  in 
the  carriage  of  his  big  person  and  tall,  upright  head. 


CHAPTER  II 

A      STRATEGIC      MOVEMENT      WHICH      SECURES      VICTORY 
WHILE    SIMULATING    RETREAT 

MRS.  SPENCER,  the  train  of  her  mauve,  cotton-back 
satin  tea-gown  thrown  negligently  over  her  arm, 
held  aside  the  strings  of  the  beaded  chick,  letting  her 
guest  pass  into  the  inner  hall.  As  she  moved  across  to 
the  open  door  of  the  much  be-frilled  and  be-palmed 
little  drawing-room,  they  rippled  back  into  place  behind 
her  with  a  rattle  of  cane  and  tinkle  of  glass.  The  fa- 
miliar sound  gave  Challoner,  who,  heavily  deliberate, 
deposited  gloves  and  hat  on  the  hall  table,  a  catch  in 
his  throat.  He  found  the  first  sight  of  Mrs.  Gwynnie 
in  her  flimsy  satin,  cream  lace,  and  rather  tired  tur- 
quoise-blue ribbons,  upsetting.  She  was  a  straw-colored, 
insignificant-featured,  fairly  tall,  fairly  plump,  fairly 
graceful,  uncomfortably  small-waisted  woman ;  looking, 
at  a  distance,  five-and-twenty,  at  close  quarters,  nearer 
five-and-thirty,  cheaply  pretty  and  effective,  though 
slightly  washed  out.  And  this  latter  quality,  or  absence 
of  quality,  in  her  appearance  took  hold  of  Challoner  now 
with  an  appeal  of  pathos  which  he  resented  and  made  an 
effort  to  ignore.  It  did  not  tend  to  the  improvement 
of  his  manners  or  of  his  temper. 

"Since  when  have  you  taken  to  answering  the  front 
door  yourself?"  he  inquired,  in  tones  of  heavy  banter. 
"Been  having  the  periodic  rumpus  with  the  maids 
again  ?" 

"Oh  no;  the  maids  are  quite  good,  thank  you,"  she 
answered,  punctuating  her  speech  with  a  little  meaning- 

192 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

less,  neighing  laugh  habitual  to  her.  "  I'm  on  excellent 
terms  with  both  of  them,  for  a  wonder.  But  it's  the 
cook's  evening  out,  and  I  gave  Esther  leave  to  go  with 
her.  I  didn't  think  we  should  have  any  particular  use 
for  them."  Again  she  laughed.  "But  didn't  you  get 
my  note  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  got  it  right  enough,"  Challoner  said.  He  had 
followed  her  into  the  drawing-room  and  stood  with  his 
hands  behind  him  and  his  back  to  the  hissing  gas-fire, 
looking  down  at  his  seal-brown  frieze  trousers.  The 
suit  was  almost  new,  yet  the  knees  showed  signs  of 
bagging  already.  This  vexed  him.  "That  is  why  I 
am  here.  You  said  you  wanted  to  see  me.  So  I  stayed 
and  dined  in  town  to  save  time,  and  came  on  just  as  I 
was." 

"So  I  perceive,"  she  put  in  with  meaning. 

Challoner  continued  to  contemplate  the  knees  of  his 
trousers.  Yet  he  was  well  aware  that  her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  another  item  of  his  costume — namely,  his  waist- 
coat, crocheted  in  red  and  white  quarter-inch  squares, 
and  finished  with  a  gray  cloth  border  and  flat  white  horn 
buttons.  Mrs.  Spencer  had  worked  it  for  him  last  year 
as  a  Christmas  present.  He  wished  to  goodness  he  had 
not  happened  to  be  wearing  it  to-night! 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  without  looking  up,  "I  got  your 
note  right  enough.  But,  do  you  know,  I  begin  to  think 
I  get  rather  too  many  of  those  notes.  You've  fallen 
into  the  habit  of  writing  too  frequently.  Between  our- 
selves, it  worries  me  a  lot." 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

He  shifted  his  weight  from  one  foot  to  the  other. 

"  Why  ?  Because  I  have  some  regard  for  your  reputa- 
tion, I  imagine.  I  don't  care  a  twopenny  damn  on  my 
own  account,  of  course.  My  back's  broad  enough  to  bear 
the  consequences  of  my  own  actions,  even  if  they  are 
disagreeable.  But  it  is  quite  another  matter  for  you; 
and  I  must  say  you're  getting  very  reckless.     That's  not 

193 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

fair  by  me.  I've  been  awfully  careful  from  the  first. 
But  where's  the  use  of  my  taking  extensive  precautions 
to  shield  you  if  you  go  and  invite  gossip  like  this?" 

"Don't  be  cross  and  scold  me,"  Mrs.  Spencer  said, 
archly. 

She  had  placed  herself  on  the  sofa  at  right  angles  to  the 
fireplace,  drawing  the  train  of  her  tea-gown  aside  so  as 
to  leave  room  for  a  second  occupant  of  this,  the  most 
solid  seat  in  the  room.  The  rest  of  the  furniture  ran  to 
wicker  chairs,  colored  Madras  muslin  veiling  their  original 
cretonne  coverings,  and  tables,  whatnots,  cabinets,  and 
flower-pot  stands  with  mottled  brown-and-biscuit  bam- 
boo frames  and  plaited  straw  tops,  brackets,  and  shelves 
to  them. 

"I  won't  write  so  often  if  you  really  think  it  is  dan- 
gerous," she  added. 

"It  is  dangerous,"  Challoner  asserted,  ignoring  the 
invitation  to  share  the  sofa.  "Think  for  yourself.  At 
Heatherleigh  there  are  my  servants.  At  the  office  there 
are  my  clerks.  Do  you  suppose  they  haven't  tongues 
in  their  mouths  or  eyes  in  their  heads  ?  If  that  does  not 
constitute  danger,  I'll  thank  you  to  tell  me  what  does." 

"  But  you  forbid  me  to  telephone,  so  how  am  I  to  com- 
municate with  you  unless  I  write?  You  call  so  seldom. 
I  hardly  ever  see  you  now." 

"Oh!  come,"  he  remonstrated,  "I  was  here  Sunday 
week." 

"  But  that's  Beattie's  afternoon  at  home.  You  know 
I  always  give  it  up  to  her  friends.  And  a  whole  crowd 
of  them  was  here  Sunday  week — Fred  Lawley,  and  the 
Busbridge  boys,  and  Marion  Chase.  I  didn't  get  three 
words  with  you." 

Challoner  glanced  at  her  in  sharp  anxiety. 

"Fred  Lawley  come  up  to  the  scratch  yet?"  he  asked. 

"  If  you  mean  has  he  proposed,  I  am  sure  I  can't  tell 
you.  I  don't  know  myself.  I  suppose  if  he  had,  Bee 
would  have  told  me.     He  seems  tremendously  gone  on 

194 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

her.  But  you  never  can  be  sure  of  a  man  till  your  en- 
gagement has  been  publicly  announced." 

It  was  Challoner  who  laughed  a  little  this  time. 

"  Not  quite  invariably  even  then,"  he  said. 

His  chin  settled  into  the  V  of  the  turned-back  corners 
of  his  high  shirt-collar,  while  his  eyes  returned  to  con- 
templation of  those  vexatiously  baggy  trousers.  Mrs. 
Spencer  began  to  speak,  but  he  hulled  down  her  voice 
by  asking,  rather  loudly: 

"By  the  way,  where  is  Miss  Beattie?" 

"Oh,  she's  gone  over  to  Marychurch  to  the  Quarter- 
mains.  They  asked  her  to  stop  the  night  because  the 
Progressive  Whist  Club  meets  at  their  house.  I  think 
those  club  parties  awfully  slow,  but  Bee  wouldn't  miss 
one  on  any  account.  They  don't  play  for  money,  only 
prizes." 

"China  lucky  pigs  or  a  black  velvet  cat,  home-made, 
with  a  pink  ribbon  around  its  neck  —  I  know  the 
style,"  Challoner  returned.  "Fred  Lawley's  the  attrac- 
tion, I  imagine,  rather  than  those  high-class  works  of 
art." 

"I  don't  think  he'll  be  there.  Bee  said  something 
about  his  having  gone  to  Southampton  to  join  his  ship. 
You  seem  very  interested  in  Fred  Lawley.  But  I  told 
you  in  my  note  Bee  was  away  to-night?" 

"Very  likely  you  did — I  really  don't  remember,"  he 
replied,  hastily. 

For  he  detected,  or  fancied  he  detected,  a  suggestion 
in  her  tone  and  words  eminently  unwelcome  and  em- 
barrassing. He  felt  the  brick-dust  red  of  his  face  and 
neck  deepening  to  crimson;  and  this  both  angered  and 
alarmed  him.  Notwithstanding  repudiation  of  senti- 
ment, was  the  soft  side  still  uppermost  ?  That  would 
not  do.  He  must  buckram  himself  more  resolutely 
against  poor  Mrs.  Gwynnie's  fascinations,  and  bring 
matters  to  a  head  at  once. 

"  But  that  reminds  me — speaking  of  Beattie,  I  mean— 
i95 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

what  do  you  want  done  about  the  lease  of  this  house? 
It  will  be  up  at  the  end  of  the  half  quarter." 

So  far  Mrs.  Spencer  had  lolled  in  attitudes  of  studied 
ease  upon  the  sofa.  Now  she  sat  bolt  upright,  clasping 
her  small  waist  with  both  hands  and  advancing  her  bust. 
The  little  neighing  laugh  preceded,  instead  of  punctuat- 
ing, her  speech.  Challoner  observed  a  nervous  ring  in 
the  quality  of  it. 

"Oh!  well  that  rests  more  with  you  than  with  me, 
doesn't  it?  Of  course  I  hadn't  forgotten  the  lease  is 
nearly  up.  It  was  partly — partly" — with  emphasis — 
"about  the  house  I  wanted  to  see  you  to-night,  and  I 
think  it  awfully  sweet  of  you  to  ask  what  I  want  done — " 

She  paused,  while  her  auditor,  in  growing  uneasiness, 
again  shifted  his  weight,  dancing-bear  fashion,  from 
one  to  the  other  foot. 

"Yes,  it's  awfully  sweet  of  you  to  put  it  that  way," 
she  repeated.  "And  I  quite  know  I  ought  to  make  up 
my  mind.  I  suppose,  on  the  whole,  I  had  better  ask 
you  to  renew  the  lease  for  a  year,  or  six  months,  unless — 
unless — " 

"Unless  what?"  Challoner  snapped. 

He  could  have  bitten  his  tongue  out  immediately  after, 
perceiving  how  woefully  he  had  blundered.  For,  al- 
though he  carefully  abstained  from  looking  at  her, 
he  knew  that  the  light  leaped  into  Mrs.  Spencer's  eyes 
and  the  pink  into  her  cheek,  while  even  her  straw- 
colored  hair,  through  the  intricate  convolutions  of  which 
a  wisp  of  turquoise  chiffon  was  twisted,  took  on  a 
livelier  tint.  She  blossomed,  in  short;  her  faded, 
crumpled,  played-out  prettiness  of  person  and  man- 
ner transformed  into  the  younger,  smarter,  more 
convinced,  and  consequently  more  convincing,  pretti- 
ness which  had  raised  an  evil  spirit  of  covetousness  in 
him  when  he  first  met  her,  and  continued  to  provoke 
that  covetousness  until — well,  until  something  very 
much  more  profitable,  socially  and  financially,  in  the 

196 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

shape  of  possibly  obtainable  womanhood  had  risen  above 
his  horizon.  The  moment  was  a  very  nasty  one  for 
Joseph  Challoner;  since  it  could  not  but  occur  to  him 
that,  while  responsible  for  much  existing  damage,  he 
was  about  to  render  himself  liable  for  far  heavier  dam- 
ages in  the  near  future.  This  taxed  his  courage.  Again, 
consciously,  he  "funked  it " ;  so  that  for  some  few  seconds 
Gwynneth  Spencer's  fate  hung  in  the  balance.  But 
only  for  a  few  seconds  did  her  fate  so  hang.  Ambition, 
and  a  brute  obstinacy  in  face  of  attempted  coercion, 
a  certain  animal  necessity  to  prove  to  himself  the  fact 
of  his  own  strength,  carried  the  day.  Challoner  turned 
his  coat  once  and  for  all,  in  as  far  as  poor  light-weight 
Gwynnie  Spencer  was  concerned,  letting  the  underlying 
element  of  cruelty  and  cunning  in  his  nature  have  free 
play. 

"  Unless  what  ?"  she  echoed,  laughing  thinly.  "  Why, 
unless  you  have  any  other  plan  to  propose,  Joe;  any 
arrangement  which  you'd  like  better  and  which  I  should 
like  better  than  just  sticking  on  here  indefinitely  at 
Robin's  Rest." 

Challoner  had  moved  away  to  a  rickety  little  bam- 
boo table,  set  out  with  cheap  flower-vases  and  knick- 
knacks.  Absently  he  picked  up  a  photograph,  in  di- 
lapidated silver  frame,  from  among  these  treasures  and 
stood  fingering  it.  The  coat  of  many  colors  was  fairly 
turned;  yet  at  the  sound  of  his  pet  name  Challoner 
started,  letting  the  object  he  held  fall  to  the  ground, 
where,  to  his  relief,  silver,  leather,  glass,  cardboard  and 
portrait  incontinently  parted  company. 

"  I  need  not  put  it  more  plainly,  need  I  ?"  she  quavered, 
an  upward  break  in  her  voice.  "But,  of  course,  if  you 
have  any  other  plan  to  propose  there  would  be  no  occa- 
sion to  bother  about  the  renewal  of  the  lease." 

Challoner  knelt  on  one  knee,  his  large  hands  groping 
over  the  carpet  as  he  gathered  up  the  debris. 

"Bless  me!"  he  said,  "the  wretched  thing's  smashed. 
197 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

What  a  nuisance!  I  hope  you  haven't  any  special 
affection  for  it.  I  am  awfully  sorry.  Can't  imagine 
how  I  came  to  drop  it!  Stupid  of  me,  wasn't  it?  I 
must  get  you  a  new  one.  I  saw  some  uncommonly  tasty 
silver  frames  in  a  shop  in  the  Marychurch  Road  to-day. 
I'll  go  in  and  buy  you  one  the  first  time  I  pass.  Tell 
your  girl  to  be  careful  when  she  sweeps  in  the  morning, 
though,  for  the  glass  has  splintered  all  over  the 
place." 

He  rose  ponderously  to  his  feet,  and  for  the  first  time 
since  his  arrival  looked  full  at  her. 

"  Peuh !"  he  went  on,  blowing  out  his  breath  and  laying 
one  hand  across  the  small  of  his  back.  "It  strikes  me 
I'm  growing  confoundedly  stiff.  Old  age  comes  on 
apace,  eh,  Mrs.  Gwynnie?  Not  in  your  case,  I  don't 
mean.  You  are  one  of  the  sort  that  wears  well.  I 
haven't  seen  you  in  better  looks  for  months.  Some 
other  plan  to  propose,  did  you  say  ?  Yes,  I  have,  other- 
wise I  mightn't  have  been  quite  so  ready  to  eat  a  beastly 
bad  dinner  down-town,  so  as  to  be  free  to  come  on  here 
early  to  see  you." 

His  manner  had  become  almost  boisterously  jocose. 
Casting  out  the  last  remnant  of  pity,  he  cast  out  the  last 
remnant  of  fear  of  her  even  in  her  present  heightened 
prettiness.  He  came  round  behind  the  sofa  and  perched 
himself  on  the  back  of  it,  sitting  sideways,  looking  down 
at  her  flushed,  expectant,  unimportant  little  face,  and 
quite  jauntily  swinging  his  leg. 

"You'll  not  forget  to  tell  them  about  the  broken 
glass?"  he  queried,  parenthetically,  "or  you'll  have 
somebody  getting  badly  cut.  As  to  my  alternative  plan 
now,  Mrs.  Gwynnie,  I  have  been  thinking  things  over 
too;  and  I  feel,  like  you,  they  can't  very  well  continue 
as  they  are.  This  Robin's  Rest  arrangement,  which 
served  its  purpose  well  enough  at  first,  is  pretty  thor- 
oughly played  out.  We  may  regret  that,  but  it  is.  And, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mrs.  Gwyn,  I  have  been  troubled 

198 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

by  some  little  qualms  of  conscience  lately.  Beattie's 
affairs  have  been  on  my  mind  a  lot." 

"Beattie,  Beattie?"  she  broke  in,  shrilly.  "What  on 
earth  has  Bee  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"The  question  is  not  so  much  what  Beattie  has  to  do 
with  it" — laying  stress  on  the  last  word — "as  what  it 
has  to  do  with  Beattie,"  Challoner  returned,  in  a  benevo- 
lent, heavy-father  tone.  "  In  my  opinion  she  has  been  a 
mighty  good  little  sister  to  you,  and  she  must  be  mortally 
tired  of  keeping  her  eyes  shut  and  playing  gooseberry  by 
this  time.  I  see  no  reason  why  her  prospects  should  be 
sacrificed.  She's  a  perfect  right  to  a  look  in  of  her  own, 
poor  girl." 

The  answer  to  the  above  might  appear  obvious.  But 
Challoner  gauged  the  mental  caliber  of  the  person  he 
dealt  with.  Mrs.  Spencer's  shallow,  trivial,  fair-weather 
nature  was  ill-adapted  to  meet  any  great  crisis.  Her 
small  brain  worked  slowly,  and  with  a  permanent  in- 
clination toward  the  irrelevant  and  indirect .  He  counted 
upon  these  defects  of  perception  and  logic,  and  he  was 
not  disappointed. 

"But — but,  when  I  marry,"  she  said,  essaying  not 
very  successfully  to  practise  her  little  laugh,  "I  always 
meant  to  make  it  a  condition  that  Bee  should  share  my 
home." 

"Very  nice  and  thoughtful.  Quite  right  of  you," 
Challoner  replied,  still  benevolently  jocose.  "Only  I 
was  talking  about  Beattie's  matrimonial  projects  just 
now,  not  about  yours,  you  see.  And  you  are  to  blame, 
Mrs.  Gwyn.  You  have  been  careless.  I  don't  want  to  pile 
on  the  agony,  but  you  have  been  most  awfully  careless. 
There  is  ever  so  much  gossip  going  round.  I  am  afraid 
people  are  beginning  to  look  just  a  little  askance.  And 
what  reflects  on  you  reflects  on  your  sister.  I  have 
taken  the  trouble  to  make  inquiries,  and,  from  all 
I  hear,  Fred  Lawley  is  a  very  decent  young  fellow  and 
will  come  into  some  money  when  his  grandfather  dies. 

199 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

He  is  second  officer  now,  and  stands  well  for  promotion 
The  pay  is  above  the  average,  too,  on  that  Cape  line. 
His  people  are  in  a  good  position;  quite  gentlefolk,  a 
solid  old  clerical  family — one  of  his  uncles  a  canon  of 
some  cathsdral  or  other,  I  forget  which.  It  would  be 
a  first-class  marriage  for  Beattie.  But  you  cannot  ex- 
pect people  like  that  to  be  best  pleased  at  his  taking  up 
with  a  girl  out  of  such  a  queer  stable  as — well,  as  this 
one,  Mrs.  Gwyn.  Therefore  I  do  not  think  I  should  be 
acting  in  your  sister's  interests  if  I  renewed  the  lease 
of  this  house  for  you." 

"I  see  that,"  she  said,  her  aspect  brightening.  "I 
see  what  you  are  coming  round  to.  How  you  have 
thought  it  all  out!     I  see — of  course — go  on." 

"I  shall  not  renew  the  lease  of  this  house,"  he  re- 
peated, slowly,  "but  I  propose  you  and  Miss  Beattie  shall 
move,  bag  and  baggage,  to  Mary  church,  where — " 

"  Marychurch  ?  Why  ?  I  thought  you  meant  Heather- 
leigh!  Why?  Do  you  want  to  get  rid  of  us?  Oh!" 
she  gasped,  "oh!" 

"Yes,"  Challoner  said,  jocosity  waning  somewhat. 
"  Exactly,  Mrs.  Gwynnie.  How  quick  you  are !  I  do  want 
to  get  rid  of  you,  for  your  own  good,  and  my  good,  and 
Beattie's  good  as  well — principally  for  hers.  This  gossip 
must  be  stopped.  I  cannot  have  it.  It  is  unpleasant 
for  me,  but  for  you  it  is  disastrous.  At  Marychurch 
Beattie  has  the  Quartermains  and  plenty  of  other  friends. 
It  will  be  handy  for  her  young  man,  too,  when  his  vessel 
is  at  Southampton.  You  would  see  ever  so  much  more 
society  there  than  you  do  here.  And  I  can  give  you  an 
uncommonly  nice  house,  very  superior  in  every  respect 
to  this  one — Sunnyside,  the  white  house  with  a  veranda, 
opposite  the  new  Borough  Recreation  Ground  in  Wilmer 
Road.  Nominally  it  belongs  to  old  Manby,  but  actually 
it  belongs  to  me.  It  has  been  standing  empty  since 
Christmas,  and  Manby  will  think  himself  only  too  lucky 
to  let  it  to  any  client  of  mine  at  a  low  rent — which  I 

200 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

pay,  of  course.  No  one  need  know  anything  about 
that." 

Challoner  talked  on,  swinging  his  leg  jauntily,  though 
every  nerve  in  his  big  body  was  strained  with  the  effort 
to  apprehend  and  follow  the  workings  of  his  hearer's 
mind.  So  far,  save  for  that  passing  outbreak,  she  had 
received  his  admonitions  and  propositions  more  reason- 
ably than  he  had  anticipated.  So  he  must  exercise 
patience,  must  not  rush  her;  but  give  the  idea  time  to 
sink  in. 

"Manby's  property  is  mortgaged  up  to  the  hilt,"  he 
went  on,  "and  he  is  more  than  half  a  year  behind  with 
the  interest.  If  he  doesn't  come  into  my  terms  I  shall 
threaten  to  foreclose.  He  knows  I  have  got  him  be- 
tween my  finger  and  thumb,  poor  old  chap,  and  he  goes 
in  terror  of  the  time  I  may  begin  to  squeeze.  I  admit  it 
does  seem  rather  rough  on  him,  for  he  is  in  this  hole 
through  no  fault  of  his  own.  His  family  has  owned  the 
property  for  three  generations.  But  his  business  has 
dwindled  to  nothing,  and  that  compelled  him  to  raise 
money.  The  co-operative  stores  at  Stourmouth  and 
Southampton  are  crushing  him  and  old-fashioned,  jog- 
along,  retail  tradesmen  like  him  out  of  existence.  The 
same  thing  is  happening  all  over  the  country.  Men  of 
his  type  have  neither  enterprise  nor  capital  to  compete 
with  those  large  company  concerns." 

She  sat  so  still,  listening  with  such  apparent  docility, 
that  Challoner  judged  it  safe  to  quit  generalities. 

"Sunnyside  shall  be  properly  done  up  and  the  sanita- 
tion inspected,"  he  said.  "I  am  willing  to  spend  from 
seventy  to  a  hundred  on  the  place.  It  is  bound  to  be 
my  own  sooner  or  later,  so  any  money  I  lay  out  on  it  will 
come  back  to  me  in  the  end.  Too,  I  want  to  do  the 
thing  handsomely  for  you,  Mrs.  Gwyn.  You  and  Beattie 
could  go  out  by  tram  to-morrow,  or  next  day,  and  have 
a  look  at  the  place.  I'll  advise  Manby  by  telephone  to- 
morrow, first  thing,  I  have  found  him  a  very  desirable 

20I 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

tenant,  so  that  he  may  open  the  house.  Better  make  a 
list  of  any  little  odds  and  ends  you  may  think  need 
doing.  If  you  like,  you  can  choose  the  wall-papers 
yourself." 

"  That's  awfully  sweet  of  you.  But  supposing  I  don't 
like  the  house  when  I  see  it  ?  I  know  I  am  rather  fanci- 
ful and  particular,"  she  put  in,  with  her  little  neighing 
laugh. 

"  I'll  guarantee  you'll  like  it,"  he  returned.  "  It's  just 
the  sort  of  house  to  appeal  to  your  taste.  Really  high 
class,  nothing  cheap  or  tawdry  about  it,  built  some- 
where in  the  early  seventies,  tip-top  style  in  its  own 
line,  quite  a  gentlewoman's  house." 

Mrs.  Spencer  fingered  the  lace  and  ribbons  of  her  tea- 
gown  negligently,  advanced  her  left  foot,  studied  the 
pointed  toe  of  her  beaded  slipper,  then  looked  up  archly 
in  Challoner's  face. 

"But  supposing,"  she  said,  "I  really  don't  want  a 
house  at  Marychurch  at  all — what  then?  Supposing  I 
really  prefer  to  remain  at  Stourmouth?  Supposing  I 
am  really  determined  to  stay  on  here  at  our  dear  old 
Robin's  Rest?" 

Challoner's  expression  darkened.  He  descended  from 
his  graceful  perch  and  stood  behind  the  sofa,  towering 
above  her. 

"Very  sorry,  Mrs.  Gwyn,"  he  replied,  "but  I  regret  to 
say  it  can't  be  done.  It  doesn't  suit  me  to  have  you  stay 
on  at  Robin's  Rest." 

"But  why?"  she  insisted. 

Challoner  hesitated  for  an  instant,  decided  to  make 
exact  truth  subservient  to  expediency,  and  spoke. 

"Why?  Well,  if  you  press  the  point,  not  only  for  the 
very  good  reasons  which  I  have  already  given  you  at 
some  length,  but  because  I  want  the  house  for  another 
tenant.  Pewsey,  my  junior  partner,  has  asked  for  it 
for  his  mother.  I  am  anxious  to  oblige  Pewsey.  I  have 
promised  him  possession  some  time  in  the  June  quarter." 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"  You  have  let  Robin's  Rest,  let  our  house,  Joe,  our 
own  dear  little  house,  without  ever  telling  me  ?  Let  it 
over  my  head?" 

Looking  at  her  upturned  face,  pretty,  scared,  brain- 
less, Challoner's  memory  played  a  queer  trick  on  him, 
harking  back  to  scenes  of  long  ago,  at  which,  as  a  school- 
boy, he  had  more  than  once — to  his  shame — assisted,  on 
the  Fairmead  at  Marychurch,  the  great,  flat,  fifty-acre 
grass  meadow  which  lies  on  the  outskirts  of  the  little  town 
between  the  River  Winner  and  the  Castle  Moat.  He 
saw,  with  startling  vividness  of  detail,  the  agonized  leap- 
ing rush  of  the  shrill-squealing  rabbits,  wire-netting 
barrier  in  front  of  them  and  red- jawed,  hot-breathing 
dogs  behind.  Even  then  he  had  turned  somewhat  sick 
at  the  hellish  pastime, although  excitement,  and  a  natural 
disposition  to  bully  all  creatures  weaker  than  himself, 
made  him  yell  and  curse  and  urge  on  the  dogs  with  the 
roughest  of  the  crowd.  He  sickened  now,  watching  this 
hapless,  foolish,  bewildered  woman  double  and  turn  in 
desperate  effort  to  elude  pursuing,  self -created  Fate, 
only  to  find  herself  brought  up  short  against  the  irre- 
fragable logic  of  the  situation  as  demonstrated  by  his 
own  relentless  common-sense.  Yet,  even  while  he  sick- 
ened, excitement  gained  on  him,  and  his  bullying  in- 
stinct began  to  find  satisfaction  in  the  inhuman  sport. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Gwynnie,"  he  said,  "I  own  I  have  done 
just  that — let  Robin's  Rest  over  your  head.  I  saw  it 
was  the  kindest  thing,  both  by  you  and  by  your  sister, 
though  it  might  strike  you  as  a  bit  arbitrary  at  first. 
My  duty  is  to  stop  this  infernal  gossip  at  all  costs.  If 
you  won't  take  proper  care  of  your  own  reputation  I 
must  take  care  of  it  for  you— isn't  that  as  clear  as 
mud?" 

"But  I  don't  want  to  go  away,"  she  cried,  again  miss- 
ing the  point.  "  I  refuse  to  be  sent  away.  You  have 
no  right  to  interfere.  It  isn't  your  place.  You  can't 
order  me  about  and  push  me  aside  like  that.  I  am  a 
14  203 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

lady,  and  I  refuse  to  put  up  with  such  treatment.  It 
is  very  rude  of  you  and  quite  unsuitable.  Everybody 
would  feel  that.  I  shall  appeal  to  my  friends.  I  shall 
tell  every  one  I  know  about  it." 

"Oh!  as  you  please,  of  course.  But  just  what  will 
you  tell  them?"  Challoner  asked. 

"Why,  the  whole  story — the  whole  truth." 

"As  you  please,"  he  repeated.  "Only  I'm  afraid  it's 
not  a  story  likely,  when  told,  to  enlarge  your  local 
visiting-list." 

Challoner  perched  on  the  back  of  the  sofa  again, 
domineering,  masterful,  leaning  down  and  looking  her 
straight  in  the  eyes. 

"See  here,  Gwynnie,"  he  said.  "You're  in  a  tight 
place.  Listen  to  reason.  Don't  be  a  fool  and  throw 
away  your  last  chance  in  a  pet." 

"  I  mean  to  expose  you.  I  will  tell  everybody,  every- 
body," she  cried. 

"No,"  Challoner  said,  "you  won't.  I  give  you  credit 
for  more  worldly  wisdom,  more  self-respect,  more  good 
feeling,  than  that.  The  injury  you  might  do  me,  by  pub- 
lishing this  little  love-passage  of  ours,  would  not  be  a 
patch  upon  the  injury  you  would  do  yourself.  You  don't 
want  to  commit  social  suicide,  do  you,  and  find  every 
door  shut  in  your  face?  Tell  any  of  these  friends  of 
yours,  the  Woodfords,  Mrs.  Paull,  Marion  Chase,  and 
they'd  avoid  you  as  they  would  a  leper,  drop  you  like  a 
hot  potato,  cut  you  dead,  whether  they  believed  your 
charming  little  tale  or  not.  You  are  fond  of  company, 
Mrs.  Gwynnie — a  gregarious  being.  You  would  not  the 
least  enjoy  being  left  out  in  the  cold  all  by  yourself. 
And  there  is  another  point.  I  am  perfectly  willing  to 
pay  for  my  pleasure  honestly,  as  a  man  should,  but  it  is 
not  wise  to  tax  my  good  nature  too  far.  Doing  your 
best  to  blast  my  reputation  is  not  exactly  the  way  to 
make  me  feel  kindly  or  act  generously  toward  you. 
There  would  be  no  more  nice  houses,  rent  free,  Mrs. 

204 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Gwyn,  rates  and  taxes  paid;  no  more  quarterly  allow- 
ance, I  am  afraid.  I  should  cut  off  supplies,  my  dear. 
Your  widow's  pension  is  paid  in  rupees,  remember,  not 
in  sterling;  and  the  value  of  the  rupee  is  hardly  likely  to 
go  up.  So  you  had  better  look  at  the  question  all  round 
before  you  take  the  neighborhood  into  your  confidence. 
Listen  here,  I  will  give  you  a  hundred  a  year  and  the 
Marychurch  house — " 

"But  if  I  tell  everybody  how  you  have  treated  me, 
public  opinion  will  force  you  to  marry  me,"  she  cried, 
with  an  air  of  announcing  an  annihilating  truth. 

Challoner  swung  his  big  body  from  side  to  side  con- 
temptuously. 

"  Faugh !"  he  said.  "  Public  opinion  will  do  nothing  of 
the  sort.  You  forget  it  is  a  case  of  my  word  against 
yours,  and  that,  considering  our  relative  positions,  my 
word  will  count  a  jolly  sight  most." 

"  But  you  dare  not  deny — " 

"Oh,  indeed  yes,  I  dare,"  Challoner  broke  out.  "I 
can  deny  and  shall  deny — or  rather  should,  for  it  won't 
ever  come  to  the  test — that  your  accusations  have  any 
foundation  whatsoever  in  fact.  If  a  woman  is  mad 
enough  to  incriminate  herself  she  must  do  so.  But  a 
man  always  denies,  at  least  every  man  of  honor  and 
proper  feeling  does.  No,  no;  be  sensible.  Think  of 
Beattie.  Think  of  yourself.  Don't  put  all  your  eggs 
in  one  basket .  You  are  a  taking  woman  still ,  Mrs .  Gwyn . 
Give  yourself  another  chance.  For  remember,  you 
haven't  a  shred  of  evidence  to  offer  in  support  of  your 
attack.  You  have  bombarded  me  with  notes,  but,  ex- 
cept as  lawyer  to  client,  I  have  never  written  you  two 
lines  in  my  life."  He  paused.  "No,  thank  goodness! 
even  at  my  hottest  I  kept  my  head  screwed  on  suffi- 
ciently the  right  way  to  avoid  the  old  letter-writing 
trap." 

"Then  from  the  first,  the  very  first,"  she  gasped, 
"did  you  never  mean  to  marry  me?" 

205 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Challoner  had  the  grace  to  hesitate,  look  down  at  the 
floor,  and  lower  his  voice  as  he  answered. 

"No,  my  dear  girl,  never — from  the  day  I  found  I 
could  get  what  I  wanted  at  the  cheaper  rate." 

Gwynneth  Spencer  stared  blankly  in  front  of  her. 
Then,  as  her  small,  slow- working  brain  began  to  take 
in  the  measure  of  her  own  disgrace,  while  the  poor  house 
of  cards  in  which  she  trusted  toppled  and  tumbled  flat, 
her  silly,  little,  neighing  laugh  rose  to  a  shriek.  Beating 
the  air  with  both  hands,  she  flung  herself  at  full  length 
on  the  sofa,  her  body  convulsed  from  head  to  foot  and 
her  throat  torn  by  hysterical  cries  and  sobs.  Challoner 
turned  his  back,  put  his  hands  over  his  ears.  The 
squealing  of  the  mangled  rabbits,  on  the  Fairmead,  had 
been  a  lullaby  compared  with  this!  But  he  found  it 
useless  to  try  and  shut  out  the  sounds.  Piercing,  dis- 
cordant, rasping,  they  echoed  through  the  room.  They 
must  be  heard  next  door.  Heard  out  in  the  road. 
Heard,  so  it  seemed  to  Challoner,  through  the  length  and 
breadth  of  Stourmouth.  Must  resound,  startling  the 
high  respectabilities  of  the  Baughurst  Park  Ward. 
Must  break  in  upon  the  dignified  seclusion  of  the  Tower 
House  itself,  searing  his  name  with  infamy. 

He  turned  round,  leaned  down  over  the  back  of  the 
sofa.  He  felt  the  greatest  reluctance  to  touch  the 
shrieking,  struggling  woman,  but  the  noise  was  unen- 
durable. He  caught  both  her  wrists,  in  one  hand,  and 
pinned  them  down  among  the  ribbons  and  laces  at  her 
waist.  The  other  hand  he  laid  upon  her  open  and  dis- 
torted mouth. 

"Hush,"  he  said.  "Be  quiet.  Hush,  you  fool! 
Gwynnie,  be  a  good  girl.  Hush,  Gwyn.  For  God's 
sake,  don't  go  on  like  this !  Hush — pull  yourself  together. 
Try  to  control  yourself.  My  dear  little  woman — 
curse  you,  leave  off  your  caterwauling,  you  damned  hell- 
cat. Do  you  hear,  hold  your  infernal  row!  Gwynnie 
love,   darling,   chummy  little   sweetheart!     Leave   off, 

?o6 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

will  you,  or  you'll  make  me  smother  you.  Leave  off. — 
Ah!  my  God!  that's  better.— Oh !     Oh!— ouf!" 

The  next  thing  Challoner  knew  clearly  was  that  he 
stood  in  the  little  dining-room.  Upon  the  dinner-table, 
under  the  dim  light  of  the  turned-down-gas-jets,  a  square 
spirit  decanter,  a  syphon  of  soda,  and  a  couple  of  glasses 
were  set  out  on  a  round  red-lacquer  tray.  He  remem- 
bered often  to  have  seen  them  set  out  thus.  But,  for  the 
moment,  he  could  not  recall  why  he  was  there  or  what 
he  came  for.  He  felt  very  tired.  His  hands  shook, 
the  veins  stood  out  on  his  forehead,  and  great  drops  of 
perspiration  ran  down  his  face.  He  would  be  uncom- 
monly glad  of  some  brandy.  Then  he  started  with  a 
sudden  movement  of  disgust.  He  might  be  brutal, 
cynical,  callous,  but  there  were  depths  to  which  he 
could  not  descend.  Never  again  could  he  eat  or  drink 
in  this  house. 

He  remembered  what  he  came  for.  A  sound  away 
in  the  offices  arrested  his  attention.  The  maids  had 
come  in,  he  supposed.  He  was  glad  of  that.  He  poured 
some  brandy  into  a  glass,  and,  crossing  the  hall,  went 
back  into  the  drawing-room,  shutting  the  door  softly 
behind  him.  Mrs.  Spencer  lay  quite  still,  the  fit  of 
hysteric  violence  spent.  Her  face  was  clay-colored. 
Her  lips  blue.  Her  eyes  closed.  Her  body  limp  and 
inert.     She  cried  a  little  weakly  and  quietly. 

Challoner  knelt  down  beside  the  sofa,  slipped  one 
hand  under  the  back  of  her  head,  with  its  elaborately 
dressed  hair  and  wisp  of  turquoise  chiffon,  and  held  the 
glass  to  her  lips. 

"Drink  this,"  he  said,  in  a  thick  whisper.  "It  will 
help  to  bring  you  round.     It  will  do  you  good." 

Then,  as  she  sipped  it,  drawing  away  now  and  then  and 
spluttering  a  little  as  the  raw  spirit  burned  her  tongue 
and  throat,  he  went  on : 

"You  are  going  to  be  sensible  and  not  throw  away 

your  chance?" 

207 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"No — I  mean  yes,"  she  said. 

"You  will  take  Beattie  over  to  Marychurch  to  look 
at  the  house?" 

"Yes— oh!  yes." 

"I'll  give  you  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  year — fifty  more 
than  I  promised.     You  can  do  quite  nicely  on  that?" 

"Yes — thank  you — yes." 

"And  as  long  as  you  keep  your  part  of  the  bargain 
I'll  keep  mine.     If  you  play  me  false  and  talk — " 

"  I  sha'n't  talk,"  she  said,  feebly  and  fretfully.  "  Why 
should  I  talk  now  it's  no  use?" 

"Ah,"  Challoner  returned,  "I  am  very  glad  you  have 
come  to  your  senses,  Mrs.  Gwyn.  I  believed,  give  it  a 
little  thought,  you'd  see  it  all  in  a  reasonable  light. 
That's  right." 

He  rose  and  went  out  into  the  hall  again,  carrying  the 
glass;  put  it  down,  took  up  his  gloves  and  hat,  crossed 
to  the  door  leading  to  the  offices,  opened  it  and  called. 

A  young  woman,  in  a  trim  black  serge  coat  and  skirt 
and  pink  sailor  hat,  appeared  in  the  kitchen  doorway 
with  a  knowing  and  slightly  disconcerting  smirk. 

"Look  here,  Esther,"  Challoner  said,  "Mrs.  Spencer 
has  been  extremely  unwell.  It  was  most  fortunate  I 
happened  to  call  in  to-night.  If  I  hadn't,  I  don't 
quite  know  what  would  have  become  of  her.  She  ought 
not  to  be  left  alone  in  the  house.  Next  time  Miss 
Beattie  is  away,  mind  both  of  you  do  not  go  out.  It 
is  not  safe." 

He  felt  among  the  loose  coins  in  his  trousers  pocket ; 
laid  hold  of  a  sovereign,  considered  that  it  was  too 
much — might  have  the  flavor  of  a  bribe  about  it.  Found 
a  couple  of  half-crowns,  drew  them  out  and  put  them 
into  the  young  woman's  hand. 

"You  understand  what  I  say?  Never  let  your  mis- 
tress be  alone  in  the  house." 

Once  outside  in  the  road,  Challoner  took  off  his  hat, 
walking  slowly.     He  was  grateful  for  the  freshness  and 

208 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

the  soothing  half -dark.  He  had  gone  about  fifty  yards 
when  the  blond  road  seemed  to  lurch.  That  horrible 
shrieking  laughter  was  in  his  ears — or  was  it  only  the 
squealing  of  the  tortured  rabbits?  He  turned  giddy, 
laid  hold  of  the  top  of  some  garden  palings  for  support. 
A  spasm  contracted  his  throat.  He  retched,  vomited. 
And  then  passed  onward,  homeward,  through  the  chill, 
moist  fragrance  of  the  spring  night. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN   WHICH   EUTERPE  IS   CALLED   UPON  TO   PLAY  THE   PART 
OF    INTERPRETER 

THE  concert  was  over.  Coming  out  of  the  Rotunda 
— a  domed  and  pinnacled  building  of  glass  and  iron, 
half  conservatory,  half  theater,  set  on  the  hillside  against 
a  crown  of  evergreen-trees — the  audience  poured  in  a 
dark  stream  down  the  steep  garden  walks  to  where, 
flanked  by  red  and  yellow  wooden  kiosks,  the  turnstiles 
and  entrance  gates  open  on  to  the  public  road. 

Joanna  Smyrthwaite  was  among  the  last  to  leave  the 
auditorium.  She  did  so  in  a  dazed  and  almost  sleep- 
walking condition,  exhausted  and  enervated  by  the  tumult 
of  her  own  sensations.  But  that  enervation  was  sin- 
gularly pleasant  to  her,  since,  by  reducing  the  claims 
of  her  overdeveloped  intellectual  and  moral  nature,  it 
left  the  emotional  element  in  undisputed  ascendancy. 
She  was,  indeed,  jealous  of  any  interruption  or  curtail- 
ment of  this  condition.  Therefore  she  lingered,  un- 
willing to  leave  the  place  where  so  much  inward  felicity 
had  been  procured  her,  and  fearing  to  meet  any  of  her 
acquaintance.  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Norbiton  and  Mrs.  Paull 
had,  she  believed,  occupied  stalls  a  couple  of  rows  behind 
her.-  She  wished  to  avoid  conversation  with  them,  and 
still  more  to  avoid  offering — her  carriage  was  waiting 
at  the  entrance  gates — to  drive  them  to  their  respective 
homes.  Their  comments  upon  the  performance,  how- 
ever intelligent  and  appreciative,  must,  she  knew,  jar 
upon  her  in  her  present  frame  of  mind.  Felicity  would 
be  extinguished  in  irritation,  and  for  such  deplorable 

2IO 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

downfall  she  should,  she  knew,  hold  her  good  neighbors 
responsible.  It  was  wiser  to  avoid  occasion  of  offense 
since  she  so  wanted,  so  really  needed,  to  be  alone. 

Her  sister  Margaret's  musical  requirements  went  no 
further  than  the  modern  English  ballad.  For  preference 
of  the  description  in  which  roses,  personal  pronouns,  cheap 
erotic  sentiment,  endearing  diminutives,  and  tags  of 
melody  appropriated — without  acknowledgment —  from 
the  works  of  early  masters  go  to  make  up  so  remarkably 
meritricious  a  whole.  Of  this  Joanna,  while  duly  de- 
ploring Margaret's  artistic  limitations,  was  really  very 
glad.  It  enabled  her  to  attend  the  weekly  Wednesday 
and  Friday  classical  concerts,  at  the  Rotunda,  by  herself. 
She  had  always  wished  to  attend  these  concerts,  but 
only  since  her  father's  demise  had  she  felt  free  to  gratify 
her  wishes  in  respect  of  them.  Since  that  event,  they 
had  become  first  a  permitted  pleasure,  then  an  indul- 
gence crying  aloud  for  gratification,  and  finally  a  duty  of  a 
semi-religious  character  on  no  account  to  be  omitted. 
To-day  the  religious  sentiment  was  conspicuously  present, 
as  the  programme  consisted  of  excerpts  from  Wagner's 
operas.  Reared  in  a  creed  which  sublimates  the  deity  to 
an  inoperative  abstraction,  Joanna's  thought  reacted 
just  now  toward  an  exaggerated  anthropomorphism. 
In  her  mind,  as  in  those  of  many  persons  deficient  in  the 
finer  and  more  catholic  musical  instinct,  the  titanic 
quality  of  so  much  of  the  great  composer's  work  excited 
feelings  of  astonishment  and  awe  which  resulted  in  an 
attitude  closely  akin  to  worship.  The  elevation  of 
primitive  human  passions — desire,  remorse,  anger,  re- 
venge, blood-hunger— to  regions  of  portent  and  prodigy, 
so  that  they  stalk,  altogether  phantasmal  and  gigantic 
clothed  in  rent  garments  of  amazing  and  tormented 
harmonies  across  the  world  stage,  their  heads  threaten- 
ing the  integrity  of  the  constellations  while  their  feet 
are  made  of,  and  squarely  planted  upon,  very  common 
clay,  is,  undoubtedly,  a  spectacle  calculated  at  once  to 

211 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

flatter  human  pride  and  provoke  a  species  of  idolatry. 
For  some  reason,  moreover,  lust  is  less  readily  con- 
ceivable in  the  neighborhood  of  the  pole  than  in  that  of 
the  equator;  so  that  the  bleak  Northern  atmosphere,  in 
which  the  Wagnerian  dramas  move,  procures  for  them 
an  effect  of  austerity,  not  to  say  of  chastity,  almost 
amusingly  misleading. 

Humor,  however,  is  indispensable  to  the  recognition  of 
the  above  little  truths,  and  Joanna's  composition  was 
innocent  of  the  smallest  admixture  of  that  merrily  nose- 
pulling  ingredient.  She  took  her  emotions  quite  se- 
riously; not  only  nursing  them  when  present,  but  finding 
in  them  later  assurance  of  the  reality  of  certain  fond 
dreams,  vehement  hopes  and  longings,  which  pos- 
sessed her.  Therefore,  standing  under  the  glazed  mar- 
quise of  the  Rotunda  she  watched,  with  strained  face 
and  pale,  anxious  eyes,  until  the  little  company  of  her 
acquaintance — she  could  distinguish  Dr.  Norbiton  by  his 
height  and  the  green  felt  hat,  cleft  in  the  crown,  which 
he  wore — reached  the  turnstiles  and  passed  out  toward 
the  animated  open  space  of  The  Square. 

This  last,  like  the  flat  of  the  valley,  lay  in  shadow; 
faint  pearl-gray  mist  veiling  the  modest  stream  whence 
Stourmouth  derives  its  name,  and  the  lawns  and  borders 
— now  gay  with  spring  flowers — of  the  well-kept  orna- 
mental grounds  through  which  it  flows.  But,  across  the 
valley,  the  fir  plantation  upon  the  opposite  slope,  and 
the  houses  and  big  hotels — the  streaming  flags  of  which 
supplied  a  welcome  note  of  crude  color  in  the  landscape 
— rising  behind  the  dark  bar  of  it,  along  with  the  upward 
curve  of  shops  and  offices  in  Marychurch  Road,  and  the 
three  tall  church  spires — two  of  buff-gray  stone,  the 
third  red-tiled  and  elegantly  slender — were  flooded  with 
steady  sunshine.  Thrushes  sang  loud  in  the  grove  at 
the  back  of  the  Rotunda.  Perched  on  the  outstanding 
ironwork  of  the  dome,  starlings  creaked  and  whistled. 
A  grind  of  tram  wheels,  hooting  of  motor  horns,  barking 

212 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

of  dogs,  and  sound  of  voices,  borne  on  the  easterly  breeze, 
arose  from  The  Square.  The  bell  of  an  Anglican  church 
called  to  evensong.  From  the  bandstand,  situated  at 
the  far  end  of  the  public  gardens,  came  the  strains  of  a 
popular  march;  while  with  these,  in  a  soft  undertone, 
mingled  the  murmur  of  the  many  trees  and  hush  of  the 
sea. 

Seeing  and  hearing  all  of  which,  in  her  present  highly 
sensitized  condition,  realization  of  the  inherent  beauty 
of  things,  the  inherent  wonder  and  delight  of  Being, 
pierced  Joanna  Smyrthwaite's  understanding  and  heart. 
Her  whole  nature  was  fused  by  the  fires  of  a  limitless 
tenderness  and  sympathy.  And,  being  thus  delivered 
from  the  tyranny  of  words  and  empty  phrases,  from  the 
false  standards  of  thought  and  conduct  engendered  by 
her  upbringing,  and  from  ever-present  consciousness  of 
her  own  circumscribed  and  discordant  personality,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  experience  she  tasted  the  strong 
wine  of  life,  pure  and  undiluted.  During  a  few  splen- 
did moments  she  knew  the  joy  of  genius'  sixth  sense — 
becoming  one  with  the  soul  and  purpose  of  all  that 
which  she  looked  upon.  Hot  tears  rose  to  her  eyes. 
She  was  broken  by  a  mute  ecstasy  of  thanksgiving. 

But  it  was  impossible  this  happy  state  should  con- 
tinue. The  malady  of  introspection  was  too  deeply 
ingrained  in  her.  Tormenting  fears  and  scruples  again 
arose.  Innate  pessimism  laid  its  paralyzing  influence 
upon  her.  She  felt  as  one  in  whose  hands  a  gift  of  great 
value  has  been  placed ;  but  whose  muscles  being  too  weak 
to  grasp  it,  the  precious  lovely  thing  falls  to  the  ground 
and  is  shattered.  Whereat  tears  of  enraptured  sen- 
sibility turned  to  tears  of  bitter  humiliation.  Drawing 
a  black-bordered  handkerchief  from  the  silver-mounted 
bag  hanging  at  her  waist,  she  pressed  it  against  her  wet, 
yet  burning,  face  and  hurried  down  the  hill. 

At  the  gates  the  well-appointed  barouche  and  pair  of 
fine  brown  horses  awaited  her— Johnson,  the  coachman, 

213 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

rotund  and  respectful,  in  his  black  livery,  upon  the  box; 
Edwin  the  footman,  elongated  and  respectful,  her  rugs 
and  wraps  over  his  arm,  at  the  carriage  door.  The 
spring  evenings  still  grew  chill  toward  sundown;  and 
Joanna's  circulation  was  never  of  the  best.  She  stood 
silent  and  abstracted  while  Edwin  put  her  cloak — a 
costly  garment  of  Persian  lamb  lined  with  ermine — about 
her  thin  shoulders;  nor,  until  she  was  seated  in  the 
carriage,  the  fur  rug  warmly  tucked  round  her,  had  her 
agitation  subsided  sufficiently  for  her  to  speak.  She 
would  not  go  the  short  way  home  by  Barryport  Road. 
She  disliked  the  traffic.  The  trams  made  her  nervous. 
She  would  go  by  the  new  drive  along  the  West  Cliff,  and 
across  Tantivy  Common. 

Obediently  the  carriage  turned  to  the  left  through  the 
shadow,  up  the  steep  hill  behind  the  Rotunda.  The 
horses  climbed,  straining  at  the  collar.  Then,  the  top  of 
the  ascent  being  reached,  they  bowled  along  the  broad, 
even  road,  snorting  in  the  sparkle  of  the  upland  air  and 
recovered  sunshine.  Joanna  sat  stiffly  upright,  shivering 
a  little  and  blinking  in  the  strong  light.  She  still  held 
her  handkerchief  in  her  hand,  and  it  was  through  a  blur 
of  again  up-welling  tears  that  she  saw  the  uninviting 
red  and  gray  terraces  and  large,  straggling  boarding- 
houses,  set  in  a  sparse  fringe  of  fir-trees,  on  either  side  the 
road.  This  quarter  of  Stourmouth,  declining  from  fash- 
ion, is  given  over  to  cheap  pensions,  nursing-homes,  and 
schools.  The  footwalks  were  infested  by  hospital  nurses 
and  bath-chairs,  while  long  files  of  girls,  marching  two 
and  two,  meandered  home  and  seaward.  Some  of  these 
maidens  stared  enviously  at  the  young  lady,  wrapped  in 
furs,  driving  along  in  her  smart  carriage,  and  sighed  for 
the  glorious  days  when  mistresses  and  lessons  would  have 
no  more  dominion  over  them.  But  Joanna  remained 
unconscious  of  the  interest  she  excited.  Her  thoughts 
had  returned  upon  a  subject  which  now  constantly  and  all 
too  exclusively  occupied  them — a  subject  to  which  even 

214 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

the  admirable  playing  of  the  Rotunda  orchestra  and 
noble  singing  of  the  young  dramatic  soprano — though 
she  had  listened  to  both  in  a  fervor  of  reverential  emotion 
— supplied,  after  all,  little  more  than  a  humble  ac- 
companiment. 

In  the  silver-mounted  velvet  bag  hanging  at  her  waist, 
neatly  filed  and  dated,  encircled  by  elastic  bands  to  keep 
them  perfectly  flat  and  prevent  their  edges  from  crum- 
pling, were  all  the  letters  she  had  received  from  Adrian 
Savage.  Even  the  thin  French  envelopes,  cross-hatched 
with  blue  inside  to  secure  opacity,  had  been  carefully 
preserved.  Even  the  telegram  she  had  received  from 
Adrian,  in  response  to  the  announcement  of  her  father's 
death,  found  a  place  there.  The  letters  in  question  were 
discreet,  even  ceremonious  epistles,  dealing  with  busi- 
ness and  plans,  expressing  regret  at  the  delays  in  his 
return  to  England  caused  by  "our  good  Challoner's" 
slowness  in  preparing  documents  and  accounts,  and 
making  civil  inquiries  as  to  Joanna  and  her  sister's 
health  and  well-being.  Quaint  turns  of  phrase  and 
vivacity  of  diction  gave  these  letters  a  flavor  of  origi- 
nality; but,  taken  as  a  whole,  less  intimate  or  more  un- 
compromising effusions  it  would  be  difficult  to  conceive. 
By  this  fact,  however,  Joanna  was  in  no  wise  daunted. 
As  all  his  many  friends  agreed,  Adrian  Savage  was  a 
dear,  delightful,  and  very  clever  fellow,  who  would 
assuredly  make  a  name  for  himself.  But  Joanna  went 
far  beyond  that,  endowing  him  with  enough  virtues, 
graces,  and  talents  to  people  this  naughty  old  earth 
with  sages  and  stock  all  heaven  with  saints.  Conse- 
quently in  the  graceful  lightness  and  polite  restraint 
of  his  letters,  alike,  she  found  food  for  admiration  and 
security  of  hope— namely,  consideration  for  the  difficul- 
ties of  her  unprotected  position,  delicacy  in  face  of  her 
recent  bereavement,  a  high-minded  determination  in  no 
way  to  hurry  her  to  a  decision. 

At  night  Joanna  placed  the  slender  packet  in  a 
215 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Russia-leather  wallet  beneath  her  pillow.  By  day  she 
carried  it  in  the  bag  at  her  waist.  Often,  when  alone, 
she  drew  it  forth  from  its  hiding-place  and  fondled  it 
tremulously.  She  had  done  so  this  afternoon  during  the 
concert  more  than  once.  It  was  unnecessary  for  her  to 
re-read  the  letters.  She  knew  their  contents  by  heart. 
Adrian  had  touched  them.  He  thought  of  her  when 
writing  them,  when  folding  the  thin  sheets  of  paper, 
when  stamping  and  addressing  the  envelopes.  Thus 
they  constituted  a  direct  material,  as  well  as  mental,  link 
between  herself  and  him.  Perpetually  she  dwelt  on  this 
fact,  finding  in  it  a  pleasure  almost  painful  in  its  in- 
tensity. Only  for  a  few  minutes  at  a  time,  indeed,  could 
she  dare  to  hold  or  look  at  the  packet.  Then,  replacing 
it  in  the  wallet  or  bag,  she  struggled  to  regain  her  com- 
posure, merely  to  take  it  out  at  the  first  favorable  oppor- 
tunity, and  repeat  the  whole  process  again. 

In  the  same  way,  although  longing  for  the  young  man's 
return,  to  the  point  of  passion,  she  hailed  each  obstacle 
which  postponed  that  return.  To  see  him,  to  hear  his 
voice  and  footsteps,  meet  his  gallant  and  kindly  eyes,  to 
watch  him  come  and  go  about  the  house,  to  listen  to  his 
clever  and  sympathetic  talk,  would  constitute  rapture, 
but  a  rapture  from  which  she  shrank  in  terror.  She  felt 
that  she  could  hardly  endure  his  presence.  It  would 
drain  her  of  vitality. 

Now,  sitting  upright  in  the  carriage,  while  the  horses 
carried  her  forward  at  a  spanking  pace  through  the  sea 
and  moorland  freshness  and  the  delights  of  the  spring  sun- 
shine, a  new  form  of  these  fears  tortured  her.  Adrian's 
love,  constant  association  with  him,  participation  in  the 
varied  interests  and  activities  of  his  daily  life  and  in  that 
of  the  brilliant  society  in  which  he  moved — this,  and 
nothing  less  than  this,  in  sum  and  in  detail,  constituted 
the  lovely  precious  gift  placed  in  her,  till  now,  so  sad  and 
empty  hands  by  a  strange  turn  of  Fortune's  wheel. 
Were  those  poor  hungry  hands  strong  enough  to  close 

216 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

upon  and  hold  it  ?  Or  would  they,  weakly  faltering  and 
failing,  let  it  fall  to  the  ground  and  be  shattered?  The 
shame  of  such  prospective  failure  agonized  her.  To 
renounce  a  crown  may  be  heroic,  but  to  have  it  incon- 
tinently tumble  off,  when  you  are  straining  every  nerve, 
exerting  every  faculty,  to  keep  it  safely  balanced  on 
your  head,  is  feeble,  as  she  felt,  to  the  point  of  ignominy. 

At  last  the  schools,  pensions,  nursing-homes,  and 
lodging-houses  were  left  behind.  The  carriage  reached 
the  open  common.  Tracts  of  gorse,  thick-set  with 
apricot-yellow  blossom,  broke  up  the  silvery  brown 
expanse  of  heather.  In  sharply  green,  grass-grown  hol- 
lows ancient  hawthorns,  their  tops  clipped  by  the  sea 
wind  into  quaint  shapes,  compact  and  ruddy,  were  dusted 
over  by  opening  leaf-buds.  High  in  air  screaming  gulls 
circled.  The  shadows  were  long,  for  the  sun  drew 
down  toward  its  setting.  Then,  as  once  before  to-day, 
the  happy  appeal  of  outward  things — in  which,  as  in 
glass,  man  may,  if  he  will,  catch  some  faint  reflection 
of  God's  glory — made  its  voice  heard,  awakening  Joanna 
Smyrthwaite  from  the  fever-dreams  of  her  almost 
maniacal  egoism. 

Obeying  a  sudden  impulse,  she  stopped  the  carriage, 
alighted,  and  walked  out  on  to  the  little  promontory  the 
neck  of  which  the  road  crosses.  Here  the  sand  cliffs, 
dyed  all  shades  from  deepest  rusty  orange  to  palest 
lemon -yellow  and  glistening  white,  descend,  almost 
perpendicularly  in  narrow  water-worn  shelves  and 
ledges  to  the  beach  nearly  a  hundred  feet  below.  Look- 
ing eastward,  up  the  wind,  the  sea  horizon,  Stourmouth, 
its  many  buildings  and  its  pier,  and  all  the  curving  coast- 
line away  to  Stonehorse  Head— the  dark  mass  of  which 
guards  the  entrance  to  Marychurch  Haven— showed 
through  a  film  of  fine  gray  mist.  Westward,  the  colors 
of  both  land  and  sea,  though  opaque,  were  warmer. 
Across  the  golden  gorse  of  the  common  in  the  immediate 
foreground  Joanna  saw  the  great  amphitheater  of  the 

217 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Baughurst  Park  Woods  extending  far  inland,  the  rich 
blue-purple  of  the  pines  and  firs  pierced  here  and  there 
by  the  living  sunlight  of  a  larch  plantation.  Beyond 
Barryport  Harbor,  only  the  farthest  coves  and  inlets 
of  whose  gleaming  waters  were  visible,  the  quiet,  rounded 
outlines  of  the  Slepe  Hills  pushed  seaward  in  blunt- 
nosed  headland  after  headland,  softening  from  heliotrope 
to  ethereal  lavender  in  the  extreme  distance,  under  a  sky 
resembling  the  tint  and  texture  of  a  pink  pearl. 

Joanna,  her  fur  cloak  gathered  closely  about  her,  stood 
a  lonely  black  figure  amid  the  splendor  of  the  scented 
gorse.  There  is  an  exciting  quality  in  the  east  wind. 
The  harsh  tang  of  it  galvanized  her  into  an  unusual 
physical  well-being,  making  her  chest  expand  and  her 
blood  circulate  more  rapidly. 

A  new  thought  came  to  her.  To  doubt  her  power 
of  meeting  the  demands  of  Adrian's  affection  and 
of  rising  to  his  level  was  really  to  doubt  the  vivifying 
power  of  that  affection,  to  doubt  his  ability  to  raise  her 
to  his  own  level.  Her  doubt  of  her  own  worthiness  was, 
in  point  of  fact,  an  accusation  against  his  intelligence  and 
his  judgment. 

Joanna  slipped  one  hand  inside  the  velvet  bag  under 
her  cloak  and  clasped  the  thin  packet  of  letters.  With 
the  other  she  momentarily  covered  her  eyes,  as  though 
in  apology  and  penitence. 

"Ah!  how  miserably  faithless  I  am,"  she  murmured 
in  her  flat,  toneless  voice.  "How  wickedly  ungrateful 
it  is  not  to  trust  him.  As  though  he  were  not  capable  of 
supplying  all  that  is  wanting  in  me — as  though  he  did 
not  know  so  far,  far  best!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

SOME    PASSAGES    FROM    JOANNA    SYMRTHWAITE's    LOCKED 

BOOK 

THAT  evening  Joanna  went  to  her  room  early.  She 
permitted  Mrs.  Isherwood  to  help  her  off  with  her 
evening  dress  and  on  with  a  purple  lamb's-wool  kimono, 
the  color  and  cut  of  which  were  singularly  ill-suited  to 
her  pasty  complexion  and  narrow-chested  figure.  She 
then  rather  summarily  dismissed  the  good  woman,  who 
retired  accompanied  by  black  silk  rustlings  indicative 
of  respectful  displeasure  and  protest.  These  Joanna 
refused  to  let  affect  her.  The  experiences  of  the  day 
had  aroused  an  inherited,  though  until  now  latent,  arro- 
gance. She  regarded  herself  as  sealed  to  that  altogether- 
otherwise-engaged  young  gentleman,  Adrian  Savage,  and 
set  apart.  Yet  ingrained  habits  of  obedience  and  self- 
repression  still  stirred  within  her,  making  her  timid  in 
the  presence  of  any  sort  of  established  authority,  even  in 
that  of  her  old  nurse.  She  needed  solitude  to  enable  her  to 
enjoy  the  luxury  of  such  "sealing"  to  the  full.  There- 
fore, when  the  door  shut  upon  those  remonstrant  rus- 
tlings, she  followed  almost  stealthily  and  locked  it,  stood 
for  a  moment  listening  to  make  sure  of  Isherwood 's  final 
departure,  then  extended  both  arms  with  a  voiceless  cry 
of  satisfaction,  crossed  to  her  satinwood  bureau,  opened 
it  and  took  the  current  volume  of  her  diary  from  a  pigeon- 
hole, fetched  lighted  candle:;  and  the  silver-mounted  bag 
containing  Adrian's  letters  from  off  her  dressing-table, 
and  sat  down  to  write. 

15  219 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"April  20,  igo- 

"I  have  neglected  my  diary  for  many  weeks.  But  I 
have  feared  I  might  set  down  that  which  I  should  after- 
ward regret.  Indeed,  all  my  accustomed  occupations  and 
employments  have  been  neglected.  They  have  appeared 
to  me  tedious  and  trivial.  My  mind  has  been  strangely 
disordered.  But  to-night  I  feel  this  state  is  passed. 
I  see  my  duty  clearly,  and  shall  not  allow  anything  to  in- 
terfere with  it  or  deflect  me  from  the  pursuit  of  it.  I  owe 
this  to  the  person  who  has  so  wonderfully  chosen  me." 

At  this  point  the  small,  neat,  scholarly  writing  became 
irregular  and  almost  illegible.  Joanna  rose  and  paced 
the  room,  pressing  her  hands  against  her  high  forehead. 
Presently  she  returned  and  sat  down  again. 

"It  is  unwise  to  dwell  too  much  on  this.  As  yet  I 
am  unequal  to  any  adequate  expression  of  my  feelings. 
When  rearranging  the  books  in  library  last  week  I  hap- 
pened to  open  a  volume  of  Mrs.  Browning's  poems  con- 
taining her  'Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese.'  They  ap- 
peared to  me  singularly  appropriate  to  my  own  case.  I 
have,  indeed,  been  weakly  jealous  that  any  other 
woman  should  have  felt,  and  so  exactly  expressed,  my 
own  thoughts  and  emotions.  Yet  I  read  and  re-read 
the  sonnets  daily.  They  speak  for  me  not  only  more 
eloquently,  but  more  truthfully,  than  I  can  speak  for 
myself.  But,  unhappily,  I  have  less,  terribly  less,  to 
offer  in  return  than  the  poetess  had.  This  has  racked 
me  with  distress,  annihilating  my  peace  of  mind,  and 
in  great  measure  dimming  my  gratitude,  until  to-day. 
I  see  how  very  wrong  this  has  been.  It  has  its  root  in 
pride.  For,  as  I  now  understand,  distrust  of  myself  is 
nothing  less  than  distrust  of  him.  I  am  resolved  to 
exterminate  my  pride  and  submit  to  be  nothing,  so  that 
he  may  give  everything.  Already  I  feel  relief  and  a 
growing  repose  of  mind  from  this  resolve.  Already  I 
feel  my  pride  yielding.     Soon,  I  believe,  I  shall  almost 

220 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

rejoice  in  my  own  absence  of  gifts  and  attractions,  since 
it  enlarges  his  opportunity  for  generosity." 

The  chatter  of  young  women  upon  the  gallery,  ac- 
companied by  smothered  laughter,  not  to  say  giggling. 
Joanna  ceased  writing,  blotted  the  page,  and  returned 
the  diary  to  its  pigeonhole.  She  moved  into  the  center 
of  the  room  and  stood  anxiously  listening.  But  to  her 
relief  no  knock  came  at  the  door.  The  two  voices  grew 
faint  along  the  corridor,  and  ceased.  Joanna  could  not, 
however,  immediately  settle  to  her  diary  again.  The 
giggling  had  brought  her  down,  from  high  poetic  regions 
to  common  earth,  with  a  bump.  Pride,  cast  out  in  one 
direction,  pranced  in  another  unrestrained — as  is  pride's 
wont.  When  Joanna  resumed  her  writing  subject  and 
treatment  alike  were  changed. 

"Marion  Chase  is  staying  here,  as  usual,"  she  wrote. 
"  In  some  ways  I  am'  glad  of  this.  It  relieves  me  of  any 
obligation  to  be  constantly  with  Margaret.  To  be  con- 
stantly with  her  would  be  very  irksome  to  me.  I  no 
longer  pretend  that  she  and  I  have  much  in  common. 
Since  papa's  authority  has  been  removed  the  radical 
divergence  between  Margaret's  character  and  mine  be- 
comes more  and  more  evident.  Marion  Chase  has  no  in- 
tellectual life.  Her  pleasures  are  active  and  practical. 
These  Margaret  appears  increasingly  to  enjoy  sharing. 
To-day  she  and  Marion  have  been  to  Southampton  and 
back  in  a  new  motor-car  Margaret  has  on  trial.  Mr. 
Challoner  selected  it  for  her  in  London.  It  came  down 
yesterday.  Margaret  is  very  much  excited  about  it. 
She  is,  of  course,  at  liberty  to  buy  a  motor-car  if  she 
pleases,  though  I  think  it  would  have  been  better  taste 
to  wait  until  the  business  connected  with  our  inheritance  . 
was  finally  settled  before  making  any  such  costly  pur- 
chase. I  prefer  Johnson  and  the  horses.  Motoring 
would,  I  feel  sure,  cause  me  nervousness.  Mr.  Challoner, 
I  heard  this  evening,  met  them  in  Stourmouth,  and, 

221 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

under  plea  of  seeing  how  the  car  worked  before  advising 
Margaret  to  keep  it,  accompanied  them  to  Southampton 
and  back.  This  appears  to  me  quite  unnecessary.  I 
could  not  make  out  from  Marion  whether  his  going 
was  by  previous  arrangement  or  merely  the  result  of  a 
sudden  thought  and  invitation.  In  either  case  I  cannot 
but  disapprove  of  his  joining  the  party.  He  is  still  here 
very  frequently,  and  Margaret  quotes  his  opinions  on 
every  occasion.  Those  opinions  are  prejudiced  and 
insular,  as  one  might  expect  from  a  man  who  has  en- 
joyed few  social  and  educational  advantages.  Papa 
used  to  say  the  worst  enemies  of  patriotism  were  pa- 
triots. This  is  certainly  true  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Chal- 
loner  in  as  far  as  the  effect  of  his  conversation  upon  me 
is  concerned.  He  knows  nothing  of  foreign  countries 
and  foreign  politics,  and  yet  speaks  contemptuously  of 
whatever  and  whoever  is  not  English.  Margaret  has 
taken  to  echoing  him  until  I  grow  weary  and  irritable. 
Surely  it  might  occur  to  her  that  reiterated  depreciation 
of  everything  foreign  must  be  displeasing  to  me.  But 
Margaret  has  no  perception.  Argument  is  lost  upon  her, 
so  I  am  constrained  to  remain  silent.  Yet  I  cannot 
disguise  from  myself  that  her  constant  association  with 
Mr.  Challoner  and  the  influence  he  undoubtedly  has  ob- 
tained over  her  may  lead  to  great  difficulties  in  the 
future — particularly  in  the  event  of  my  own  mar- 
riage." 

Here,  once  again,  the  neat  writing  became  erratic. 
Emotion  gained  upon  Joanna,  compelling  her  to  lay 
down  her  pen,  rise,  and  pace  the  room. 

"  My  own  marriage — my  own  marriage,"  she  repeated, 
her  head  thrown  back,  her  eyes  shut,  her  arms  hanging 
straight  at  her  sides,  while  her  hands  worked,  opening 
and  closing  in  nervous,  purposeless  clutchings. 

Presently  she  walked  back  to  the  bureau  and  took 
Adrian's  letters  out  of  the  velvet  bag,     Resting  her  left 

222 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

hand,  her  fingers  outstretched,  upon  the  flat  slab  of  the 
bureau  for  support,  she  held  the  letters  in  her  right. 
Their  contact  made  her  wince  and  shrink,  as  though 
she  held  white-hot  metal  instead  of  innocent  bluey- 
white  note-paper.  Only  by  degrees  could  she  muster 
sufficient  composure  to  look  at  the  slim  little  packet 
upon  which  encircling  elastic  bands  conferred  a  dis- 
tinctly prosaic  and  even  bill-like  appearance. 

" '  And  yet  because  thou  overcomest  so, 
Because  thou  art  more  noble  and  like  a  king, 
Thou  canst  prevail  against  my  fears  and  fling 
Thy  purple  round  me,  till  my  heart — '  " 

Her  voice  failed,  dying  in  her  throat,  leaving  the  quo- 
tation incomplete.  Hastily  she  pushed  the  packet  of 
letters  back  into  the  bag,  snapped  to  the  silver  catch, 
and,  again  pressing  her  hands  to  her  forehead,  paced  the 
room  till  such  time  as  her  agitation  had  sufficiently  sub- 
sided for  her  to  resume  her  writing. 

"  I  must  resist  the  temptation  to  dwell  upon  a  certain 
subject,  save  in  silence.  To  refer  to  it  in  words  moves 
me  too  deeply.  That  subject  is  the  life  of  my  life.  Of 
this  I  am  so  utterly  sure,  so  utterly  convinced,  that  I 
can  surely  afford  to  keep  silence.  Just  in  proportion  as 
I  know  that  my  heart  is  beating,  it  becomes  unnecessary 
to  count  the  heart-beats.  I  had  better  write  of  practical 
things.  To  do  so  has  lessened  the  worry  they  too  often 
caused  me  in  the  past.  I  trust  it  may  do  so  again.  I 
mean  this  specially  in  connection  with  the  anxiety 
Margaret's  association  with  Mr.  Challoner  occasions  me. 
I  fear  Margaret  is  disingenuous.  Mamma  used  to  de- 
plore a  tendency  to  deceit  in  her,  deceit  in  little  things, 
even  when  she  was  a  child.  Margaret  enjoys  concealment. 
It  amuses  her  and  gives  her  an  idea  of  her  own  astute- 
ness and  superiority.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  unjust,  but  I 
cannot  help  fearing  this  tendency  to  slyness  is  increased 
by  her  intercourse  with  Mr.  Challoner  and  with  Marion. 

223 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"  In  addition  to  the  fact  of  Mr.  Challoner's  drive  with 
them  to  Southampton  something  else  came  out  at  dinner, 
to-night,  which  disturbed  me.  On  my  way  home  to-day, 
after  crossing  Tantivy  Common,  Johnson  turned  along 
Silver  Chine  Road.  A  pantechnicon  van  stood  before 
one  of  the  small  houses  which  I  recognized  as  that  which 
Margaret  once  pointed  out  to  me  as  belonging  to  Mrs. 
Spencer.  As  the  carriage  passed,  I  saw  Mrs.  Spencer  her- 
self and  her  young  sister,  Miss  Beatrice  Stacey,  directing 
the  men  who  were  carrying  out  the  furniture.  I  thought 
they  both  looked  hard  at  me,  but  I  did  not  bow.  I  sent 
cards  to  Mrs.  Spencer,  as  to  every  one  else  who  called 
here  to  inquire  after  papa's  death,  but  I  do  not  desire  her 
acquaintance.  On  the  few  occasions  when  I  have  met  her 
she  appeared  to  me  a  frivolous,  dressy  person,  whose  in- 
fluence upon  Margaret  would  not  be  for  good.  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  uncharitable,  but  her  manners  struck  me  as 
unladylike.  At  dinner  I  mentioned  the  circumstances 
under  which  I  saw  her  this  afternoon.  Marion  glanced 
at  Margaret  with  a  singular  expression  of  face. 

" '  I  heard  Mrs.  Spencer  and  Bee  were  leaving  soon,'  she 
said.     '  I  believe  they  have  taken  a  house  at  Marychurch . ' 

"I  observed  Margaret  flushed,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"'Of  course  I  don't  believe  there  is  any  real  harm 
in  her,'  Marion  added,  again  looking  at  Margaret,  'or  I 
should  not  have  gone  there  so  often.  But  I  do  think 
whatever  talk  there  has  been  is  entirely  her  own  fault.' 

"Then  Margaret  began  to  speak  of  the  car,  and  Mr. 
Challoner's  advice  to  her  about  buying  it,  in  a  rather 
loud  tone.  She  hardly  spoke  to  me  during  the  rest  of 
the  evening.  I  certainly  had  no  intention  of  annoying 
her  by  mentioning  Mrs.  Spencer,  but  she  was  evidently 
very  angry  with  me.  I  cannot  help  being  anxious — 
yet  I  know  my  own  great  happiness  should  make  me 
patient  and  tolerant,  even  when  vulgar  and  trivial  mat- 
ters are  pressed  upon  my  attention.  I  am  very  weak. 
I  ought  to  rise  above  all  such  things  and  rest  calmly  in 

224 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

the  one  wonderful  thought  that  I  am  no  longer  alone, 
that  I  no  longer  belong  to  myself." 

Joanna  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes. 

" '  Thou  canst  prevail  against  my  fears  and  fling  thy 
purple  round  me,'"  she  again  quoted  half  aloud.  Then 
once  more  she  wrote. 

"  I  am  glad  that  I  am  rich.  I  have  never  felt  glad  of 
this  till  to-day.  We  have  always  been  rich,  and,  though 
papa  inculcated  economy  as  a  duty,  I  have  taken  riches 
for  granted  as  a  natural  part  of  my  own  position. 
Now  I  recognize  their  value.  I  have  at  least  that  to 
give — I  mean,  a  not  despicable  amount  of  wealth,  and 
the  dignified  ease  which  wealth  obtains.  In  this  respect 
at  least  I  can  make  some  slight  return.  Since  there  has 
been  time  to  look  into  affairs,  we  find  papa's  estate 
considerably  larger  than  we  supposed.  Margaret  and  I 
shall  each  have  between  seven  and  eight  thousand  a 
year.  Yes,  I  am  very,  very  glad.  At  least  I  do  not  go 
to  him  an  empty-handed  beggar  in  material  things." 

She  sat  awhile  looking  up,  both  hands  resting  on  the 
edge  of  the  slab.  Her  mouth  was  half  open,  her  eyes 
fixed,  her  face  irradiated  by  an  expression  of  ecstasy 
painful  in  its  strained  intensity.  A  little  more  and 
ecstasy  might  decline  to  idiocy.  Joanna  doted;  and 
always — though  particularly  under  such  circumstances 
as  Joanna's — it  is  a  mistake  to  dote. 


CHAPTER  V 

in  which  Adrian's  knowledge  of  some  inhabitants 
op  the  tower  house  is  sensibly  increased 

A  WEEK  of  the  burning  mid-May  weather,  such  as 
often  comes  in  the  fir  and  heather  country.  The 
Baughurst  woods  and  all  the  coast-line  from  Marychurch 
to  Barryport  basked  in  the  strong,  still  heat.  Over  open 
spaces  the  heat  became  visible,  dancing  and  swirling  like 
the  vapors  off  a  lime-kiln  as  it  baked  all  residue  of 
moisture  out  of  the  light  surface  soil.  Aromatic  scents 
given  off  by  the  lush  foliage  and  lately  risen  sap  filled  the 
air.  The  furze-pods  crackled  and  snapped.  Fir-cones 
fell,  softly  thudding,  on  to  the  deep,  dry  beds  of  fir- 
needles, and  films  of  bark  scaling  off  the  red  upper 
branches  made  small,  ticking  noises  in  the  sun-scorch. 
All  day  long  in  the  heart  of  the  woodland  turtle  doves 
repeated  their  cozy,  crooning  lament.  Wandering 
cuckoos  called.  In  the  gardens  blackbirds  and  thrushes, 
though  silent  at  mid-day,  sang  early  and  late.  Great 
blue  and  green  dragonflies  hawked  over  the  lawns,  dart- 
ing back  and  forth  from  the  warm  dappled  shade  of  the 
fir  plantations,  where  their  enameled  bodies  and  trans- 
parent wings  glinted  across  long  slanting  shafts  of  sun- 
light. In  the  shrubberies  rhododendrons,  azaleas,  pink 
thorns,  and  crab-trees  were  in  flower.  Lilac  and  syringa 
blossom  was  about  to  break.  The  sky,  high  and  un- 
clouded, showed  a  deep,  hot  blue  above  the  dark-plumed 
pines  and  fir-trees  and  against  the  red-tiled  roofs  and 
sextagonal  red-brick  tower — surmounted  by  a  gilt  weath- 
er-vane— of  the  Tower  House  from  sunrise  to  sunset. 

226 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Adrian  Savage  lay  back  in  a  long  cane  chair  set 
upon  the  veranda,  around  the  fluted  terra-cotta  pillars 
of  which  trumpet-flowered  honeysuckle,  jasmine,  and 
climbing  roses  flourished.  He  found  the  English  heat 
heavy  and  somewhat  enervating,  clear  though  the  at- 
mosphere was.  It  made  him  lazy,  inclined  to  dream 
and  disinclined  to  act  or  think.  He  laid  The  Times  down 
on  the  wicker  table  beside  him,  put  his  Panama  hat  on 
the  top  of  it,  returned  a  small  illustrated  French  news- 
paper, of  questionable  modesty,  to  the  breast-pocket  of 
his  jacket,  stretched,  stifled  a  yawn,  and  lighted  his 
third  cigarette.  Then,  reclining  in  the  chair  again,  he 
contemplated  the  perspective  of  his  own  person — clad  in 
a  suit  of  white  flannel  with  a  faint  four-thread  black 
stripe — to  where  the  said  perspective  ended  in  a  pair 
of  tan  boots.  He  had  bought  the  boots  in  London.  He 
knew  they  represented  the  last  word  of  the  right  thing. 
So  he  ought  to  like  them. — He  crossed  and  re-crossed  his 
feet. — But  he  wasn't  sure  he  did  like  them.  On  the  whole 
he  thought  not.  Therefore  he  sighed  meditatively, 
pulled  the  tip  of  his  close-cut  black  beard  and  pushed 
up  the  rather  fly-away  ends  of  his  mustache.  Stared 
sadly  at  the  tan  boots,  raised  his  eyebrows  and  shoulders 
just  perceptibly,  and  mournfully  shook  his  close-cropped 
black  head.  Sighed  again,  and  then  looked  away,  across 
the  gravel  terrace  and  flower-beds  immediately  below 
it  crowded  with  pink,  mauve,  and  pale-yellow  tulips, 
to  where,  on  the  sunk  court  at  the  far  end  of  the  long, 
wide  lawn,  four  agile,  ruddy-faced,  white-clothed  young 
people  very  vigorously  played  tennis. 

In  the  last  three  months  Adrian  had  lost  weight. 
La  belle  Gabr telle  had  not  been  kind;  not  at  all  kind. 
More  than  ever  did  she  appear  elusive  and  baffling. 
More  than  ever  was  the  mysterious  element  of  her 
complex  and  enchanting  personality  in  evidence.  She 
frequented  drawing-room  meetings  at  which  Femi- 
nists, male  as  well  as  female,  held  forth.     She  received 

227 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Zelie  de  Gand  and  other  such  vermin — the  term  is 
Adrian's — at  her  thrice-sacred  flat.  Finally,  her  atti- 
tude was  altogether  too  maternal  and  beneficent  toward 
M.  Rene-  Dax.  These  things  caused  Adrian  rage  and 
unhappiness.  He  lost  flesh.  In  his  eyes  was  a  per- 
manently pathetic  and  orphaned  look.  Happily,  his 
nose  retained  its  native  pugnacity  of  outline,  testifying 
to  the  fact  that,  although  he  might  voluminously  sigh 
as  a  lover,  as  a  high-spirited  and  perfectly  healthy  young 
gentleman  he  could  still  very  handsomely  spoil  for  a 
fight. 

But  no  legitimate  fight  presented  itself — that  was 
exactly  where,  from  Adrian's  point  of  view,  the  worry 
came  in.  He  might  haunt  la  belle  Gabrielle's  staircase, 
spend  hours  in  consultation  with  wise  and  witty  Anas- 
tasia  Beauchamp,  exert  all  his  ingenuity  to  achieve  per- 
suasion or  excision  of  Rend  Dax,  but  without  practica- 
ble result.  About  as  useful  to  try  to  bottle  a  shadow, 
play  leap-frog  with  an  echo,  tie  up  the  wind  in  a  sack! 
Really  he  felt  quite  glad  to  go  away  to  England  for 
a  time,  out  of  the  vexatiously  profitless  wear  and  tear 
of  it  all. 

The  sun,  sloping  westward,  slanted  in  under  the 
round-headed  terra-cotta  arches  supporting  the  roof  of 
the  veranda.  Adrian  drew  his  feet  back  out  of  the 
scorch,  and  in  so  doing  sat  more  upright,  thereby  gaining 
a  fuller  view  of  the  tennis  players. 

Marion  Chase  happened  to  be  serving.  She  interested 
him  as  a  type  produced  by  current  English  methods 
of  mental  and  physical  culture  practically  unknown  in 
France.  She  stood — so  she  informed  him  with  the 
utmost  frankness — five  feet  ten  in  her  stockings,  took 
eight  and  a  half  in  shoes,  measured  forty  inches  round 
the  chest  and  twenty-nine  and  three-quarters  round  the 
waist.  To  these  communicated  details  he  could  add 
from  personal  observation  that  she  had  the  complexion 
of  a  Channel  pilot,  owned  a  sensible,  good-tempered, 

228 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

very  managing  face,  and  spoke  in  a  full  barytone  voice. 
He  accredited  her  with  being  very  fairly  honorable, 
irreproachably  virtuous,  and  conspicuously  devoid  of 
either  the  religious  or  artistic  sense — though  she  fre- 
quented concerts,  picture  galleries,  and  church  services 
with  praiseworthy  regularity  and  persistence.  He  liked 
her  rather,  and  wondered  at  her  much — being  unaccus- 
tomed to  the  society  of  such  large-boned,  athletic,  and 
sexless  persons,  petticoated,  yet  conspicuously  deficient 
in  haunches  and  busts. 

Miss  Chase,  he  further  remarked,  was  permanently  in 
waiting  upon  Margaret  Smyrthwaite.while  a  tail  of  youths 
and  maidens  was  almost  as  permanently  in  waiting  upon 
Miss  Chase.  Their  relation  to  her  was  gregarious  rather 
than  sentimental,  a  mere  herding  of  children  who  follow 
a  leader  at  play.  The  said  tail  to-day  consisted  of  the 
Busbridge  boys  and  Amy  Woodford — the  former  two 
lanky,  sandy  -  headed,  quite  innocuous  young  fellows  in 
immaculate  flannels,  their  nether  garments  sustained 
by  green  and  orange  silk  handkerchiefs  knotted — Adrian 
trusted  securely — about  their  waists ;  the  latter  a  rather 
stout,  dark-haired  young  lady,  arrayed  in  white  linen, 
who  would  have  been  very  passably  pretty  had  not  her 
mouth  been  too  small,  her  nose  too  long,  and  her  bright, 
boot-button-black  eyes  set  insufficiently  far  apart. 

Idly  he  watched  the  quartette  as  the  members  of  it 
ran,  leaped,  backed,  called,  stood  breathing  after  a  long 
rally,  with,  apparently,  as  little  soul  or  mind  in  their 
active  young  bodies  as  a  mob  of  colts  and  fillies.  Then 
his  eyes  traveled  to  Margaret  Smyrthwaite  sitting  out- 
side the  larch  -  built,  heather  -  thatched  tennis  pavilion 
beyond  the  court  in  the  shade  of  a  grove  of  tall  fir  and 
beech  trees. 

If  Marion  Chase  caused  him  wonder,  Margaret  caused 
him  very  much  more,  though  from  a  different  angle. 
Her  development  in  the  last  three  months  struck  him 
as  phenomenal— a  startling  example  of  the  adaptability 

229 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

to  environment  inherent  in  the  feminine  nature.  From 
a  rather  negative  and  invertebrate  being,  with  little  to 
say  and  a  manner  alternately  peevish  and  silly,  she  had 
grown  into  a  self-possessed  young  woman,  capable  of 
making  her  presence,  pleasure,  and  displeasure,  definitely 
felt.  The  likeness  and  the  unlikeness  she  bore  to 
Joanna  had  from  the  first  appeared  to  Adrian  both 
pathetic  and  singular.  Now,  on  seeing  the  twin  sisters 
again,  this  likeness  and  unlikeness  passed  the  bounds  of 
pathos  and  became,  to  his  eyes,  quite  actively  cruel. 
For  they  bore  to  each  other — it  was  thus  he  put  it — the 
same  relation  that  the  edition  de  luxe  of  a  book  bears 
to  its  original  rough  copy — Joanna,  naturally,  represent- 
ing the  rough  copy.  All  the  ungracious  and  ungrateful 
aspects  of  Joanna's  appearance  were  nicely  corrected 
in  her  sister,  fined  down  or  filled  out — heavy,  yellow- 
ish auburn  hair,  improved  to  crisp  copper;  a  pasty 
complexion  giving  place  to  a  fair  though  freckled  skin 
and  bright  color;  blue  eyes  no  longer  prominent  or 
anxious,  but  clear,  self-content,  and  possibly  a  trifle  sly. 

At  forty  Adrian  could  imagine  her  fat  and  a  little 
coarse-looking,  but  now  her  figure  was  graceful,  and  she 
dressed  well,  though  with  perhaps  too  great  elaboration 
for  impeccable  taste.  Adrian  trembled  as  to  the  flights 
of  decorative  fancy  which  might  present  themselves  when 
her  period  of  mourning  was  passed!  To-day  she  wore 
a  black  muslin  dress  and  a  wide-brimmed,  black  chip  hat, 
trimmed  with  four  enormous  black  silk  and  gauze  roses, 
the  whole  of  rather  studied  candor  of  effect.  Yes,  she 
was  quite  an  agreeable  object  to  look  upon ;  but  Joanna, 
oh!  poor,  poor  Joanna! 

Adrian  lit  a  fourth  cigarette,  stretched  himself  in 
his  chair  again,  crossing  his  legs  and  gazing  up  at  the 
roof  rafters.  Joanna  afforded  him  an  uncomfortable 
subject  of  thought,  and  one  which  he  tried  to  avoid  in 
so  far  as  possible.  He  respected  her.  More  than  ever 
he  felt  a  chivalrous  pity  toward  her.     But  he  did  not  like 

230 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

her,  somehow.  Ridiculous  though  it  might  sound,  he 
was  a  wee  bit  afraid  of  her,  conscious  of  self-protective 
instincts,  of  an  inclination  to  erect  small  barricades  and 
throw  up  small  earthworks  behind  which  to  shelter 
when  alone  with  her.  He  was  ashamed  of  his  own  sen- 
sations, but — and  more  particularly  since  he  had  seen 
those  degraded  drawings  upon  the  wall  of  Rent's  studio 
which  so  dreadfully  resembled  her — she,  to  use  a  childish 
expression,  gave  him  the  creeps. 

Then,  suddenly  penetrated  by  a  conviction  that  her 
pale  eyes  were  at  that  very  moment  fixed  upon  him, 
Adrian  whipped  out  of  his  chair  and  wheeled  round, 
very  alert  and  upright  in  his  tan  boots  and  light  flannel 
suit. 

"Ah!  my  dear  cousin,  it  is  you!  I  thought  so,"  he 
said,  quickly.  "At  last  you  come  out  to  enjoy  this 
ideal  afternoon.     That  is  well.     Is  it  not  ravishing?" 

For  quite  a  perceptible  space  of  time  Joanna  made  no 
reply.  She  stood  on  the  stone  step  of  one  of  the  large 
French  windows  opening  on  to  the  veranda.  Her  lips 
were  parted  and  upon  her  face  was  a  singular  expression, 
midway — so  it  struck  Adrian — between  driveling  folly 
and  rapture.  This  recalled  to  him  with  such  vividness 
those  evil,  drawings  upon  the  studio  wall  that  had  the 
likeness  been  completed  by  her  sporting  masculine  attire 
it  would  hardly  have  surprised  him.  She,  in  point  of 
fact,  however, wore  nothing  more  peculiar  than  a  modest, 
slightly  limp,  black  alpaca  coat  and  skirt.  Adrian  was 
aware  of  developing  an  unreasoning  detestation  of  that 
innocent  and  very  serviceable  material. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said,  at  last,  in  a  sort  of  hurried 
whisper.  "  I  ought  not  to  have  come  out  unexpectedly 
thus,  by  the  window.  I  have  disturbed  you.  It  was 
thoughtless  of  me  and  inconsiderate." 

"But— no — no — not  in  the  least,"  he  assured  her. 
"I  was  doing  absolutely  nothing.  The  hot  weather 
disposes  one  to  idleness.     I  tried  to  read  The  Times.     I 

231 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

found  it  a  monument  of  dullness.  I  looked  into  a  little 
French  paper  I  have  here."  He  patted  the  breast- 
pocket of  his  jacket.     "I  found  it  quite  too  lively." 

The  corners  of  his  mouth  gave  slightly;  for  oh!  how- 
very  far  away  from  poor  Joanna's  was  the  outlook  upon 
things  in  general  of  that  naughty  little  print! 

"Have  no  fear,"  he  added.  "It  shall  remain  safely 
stowed  away.  It  is  not,  I  admit,  exactly  designed  for 
what  you  call  family  reading — unsuited,  for  example, 
to  the  ingenuous  minds  of  those  excellent  young  tennis 
players!  Ah,  the  energy  they  display!  It  puts  me  to 
shame." 

Joanna  came  forward  slowly,  touching  chairs,  flower- 
stands,  tables,  in  passing,  as  though  blindly  feeling  her 
way. 

"I  have  wanted  so  much  to  speak  to  you  alone,"  she 
said. 

"Yes — yes?"  Adrian  answered  inquiringly,  with  a 
hasty  mental  looking  around  for  suitable  barricade- 
building  material. 

"Ever  since  you  told  me  you  had  lately  suffered 
anxiety  and  trouble,"  she  continued. 

"Ah!  my  dear  cousin,  you  are  too  sympathetic,  too 
kind.  Who  among  us  is  free  from  anxieties  and  troubles 
— des  ennuis?  One  accepts  them  as  an  integral  part  of 
one's  existence  upon  this  astonishing  planet.  One  even 
cherishes  a  certain  affection  for  them,  perhaps  one's  owrn 
dear  little  personal  ennuis." 

Joanna  sank  into  a  chair.  Her  lips  worked  with 
emotion. 

"I  wish  I  could  feel  as  you  do,"  she  said.  "But  I 
am  weak.  I  rebel  against  that  which  pains  me  or 
causes  me  anxiety.  I  have  no  large  tolerance  of  philos- 
ophy. But,  therefore,  all  the  more  do  I  admire  it  in 
you.  Now,  when  I  allude  to  your  trouble  you  try  to  put 
the  matter  aside  gracefully  out  of  consideration  for  me. 
Indeed,   I  appreciate  that  consideration,  but  while  it 

232 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

causes  me  gratitude,  it  increases  my  regret. — You  will 
not  think  me  officious  or  intrusive  ?  But  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  it  distresses  me  that  you  should  endure  any 
mental  suffering,  that  you  should  have  troubles  or 
anxieties.  I  had  never  thought  of  the  possibility  of 
anything  unhappy  in  your  life  or  circumstances.  Since 
you  told  me  I  think  of  it  continually.  Forgive  me  if 
I  appear  presumptuous,  but  you  have  done  so  incalcu- 
lably much  for — for  us — Margaret,  I  mean,  and  me — 
especially,  I  know" — her  voice  faded  to  a  mere  thread — 
"  I  know,  of  course,  for  me — that  I  have  wondered  whether 
there  was  not  anything  in  which  I  could  be  of  some 
slight  use  to  you,  in  which  I  could  help  you,  in  return?" 

Adrian  had  subsided  into  his  long  chair  again.  He 
leaned  sideways,  his  legs  crossed,  his  right  arm  extended 
to  its  full  length  across  the  arm  of  the  chair,  holding  his 
cigarette  between  his  first  and  second  fingers,  as  far  from 
his  companion  as  possible  lest  the  smoke  of  it  should  be 
unpleasant  to  her.  His  lean,  shapely  hand  and  wrist 
showed  brown  against  the  hard  white  of  his  shirt- 
cuff,  and  the  blue  smoke  from  the  smoldering  cigarette 
curled  delicately  upward  in  the  hot,  fragrant  air.  And 
Joanna  watched  his  every  movement;  watched  with  the 
fixed  intentness,  the  beatified  idiocy,  of  those  who  dote. 

Outwardly  the  young  man  remained  charmingly  deb- 
onair. Inwardly  he  labored  at  the  erection  of  barri- 
cades and  the  strengthening  of  earthworks  with  positive 
frenzy,  distractedly  apprehensive  of  what  might  be  com- 
ing next. 

"Sympathy  so  generously  given  as  yours  can  never 
be  otherwise  than  helpful,  dear  cousin,"  he  said.  "Be- 
lieve me,  I  am  deeply  touched  by  the  interest  you  take 
in  me.  But  the  trouble  I  have  on  my  mind — and  which 
it  was  foolish  and  selfish  of  me  ever  to  allude  to — " 

"Oh  no,"  Joanna  interrupted,  breathlessly.  "Do  not 
say  that.  Pray  don't.  It  was  entirely  my  doing. 
Both  Margaret  and  I  observed  that  you — you  looked 

233 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

sad,  that  you  had  grown  thinner.  I  questioned  you. 
Perhaps  it  was  intrusive  of  me  to  do  so.  Yet  how 
could  I  remain  silent  when  all  which  affects  you  neces- 
sarily concerns  me  so  profoundly  ?" 

Notwithstanding  the  high  temperature,  Adrian  felt 
something  queerly  like  a  trickle  of  iced  water  down  the 
length  of  his  spine.  He  just  managed  not  to  change  his 
position,  but  remained  leaning  sideways  toward  her. 

"  You  are  more  than  kind  to  me,  dear  cousin,"  he  said. 
"  Really,  more  than  kind  and  good.  But  I  am  sure  your 
ready  sympathy  will  make  you  comprehend  there  is  a 
stage  of  most  ennuis,  private  worries  and  bothers, 
when  it  is  only  discreet,  only,  indeed,  honorable,  to 
maintain  silence.  Yet,  believe  me,  I  shall  never  forget 
your  amiable  solicitude  for  my  happiness.  Some  day 
in  the  future  it  may  become  possible  for  me  to  explain — ' ' 

"Yes — oh!  yes — in  the  future — thank  you — I  know — 
in  the  future,"  Joanna  whispered,  pressing  her  hands 
over  her  eyes. 

And  Adrian  shrank  away  from  her.  He  couldn't  help 
it.  Mercifully,  she  wasn't  looking.  He  uncrossed  his 
legs,  sat  upright.  Then,  leaning  forward  with  bent 
head,  he  stared  at  the  red  and  purple  quarries  of  the 
pavement,  resting  his  wrists  upon  his  knees.  He  was 
about  to  reply,  but  Joanna's  toneless  speech  rushed 
onward. 

"Pray,  pray  do  not  suppose  that  I  wish  to  cross- 
question  you  or  force  myself  into  your  confidence. 
Nothing  could  be  further  from  my  intention  than  that. 
I  am  so  sure  you  know  far  best  what  to  tell  and  what 
to  withhold  from  me.  I  could  never  question  your 
judgment  for  an  instant.  In  this,  as  in  everything — 
yes,  everything — I  am  ready  and  contented  to  wait. 
Only  sometimes  there  are  practical  ways  of  being  help- 
ful. I  have  lived  among  business  people  all  my  life, 
and  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  if  there  was  any 
scheme — connected  with  your  Review,  for  instance — for- 

234 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

give  me  if  I  am  presumptuous — but  any  business  affair 
in  which  you  were  interested  and  which  might  require 
capital,  might  need  financing — " 

Adrian  raised  his  head  slightly.  His  face  was  drawn 
and  very  pale.  His  nostrils  quivered.  He  had  sufficient 
self-control  to  keep  his  eyes  steadily  upon  the  white, 
capering  forms  of  the  tennis  players  there  on  the  other 
side  of  the  sunny  lawn.  "Was  it  conceivable  that  she, 
Joanna — of  all  created  women — was  trying  to  buy  him  ? 
The  degradation,  the  infinite  disgust  of  it! — But  no, 
that  really  was  too  vile  a  thought.  With  all  the  clean- 
ness, all  the  chivalry  of  his  nature,  Adrian  thrust  it  aside, 
refusing  to  dishonor  her  so  much.  Again  he  nerved 
himself  to  speak,  and  again  her  speech  rushed  onward  like 
— so  it  seemed  to  him — some  toneless  hissing  of  wind 
over  a  barren,  treeless,  seedless  waste. 

"Pray,  pray  do  not  be  displeased  with  me,"  she 
pleaded.  I  may  be  acting  unconventionally  in  touching 
thus  upon  matters  apparently  outside  my  province. 
But,  as  I  think  you  will  admit,  I  am  at  most  only  fore- 
stalling the  right,  the  privilege  rather — for  to  me  no 
privilege  could  be  greater — which  will  be  mine  later  on, 
in  the  future  of  which  you  just  now  spoke.  Please  think 
of  it  thus.  And  if  my  action  is  premature,  a  little  unbe- 
coming or  unusual,  you — who  understand  everything — 
will  most  surely  forgive.  No — Cousin  Adrian,  do  not 
answer  me,  I  implore  you — not  just  yet.  I  have  longed 
so  earnestly  for  this  opportunity  of  talking  alone  with 
you.  Give  me  time.  Let  me  finish.  I  know  I  do  not 
express  myself  well.  But  be  patient  with  me.  When 
we  are  together  I  am  only  conscious  of  your  presence. 
I  become  miserably  deficient  in  courage  and  resource. 
Words  fail  me.  I  am  so  sensible  of  my  own  short- 
comings. Therefore  I  cannot  consent  to  lose  this  oppor- 
tunity. There  is  something  I  so  intensely  need  to  tell 
you,  because  I  cannot  help  hoping  it  may  lighten  the 
anxieties  which  have  been  troubling  you — " 
16  235 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

During  this  extraordinary  address  Adrian  held  himself 
rigidly  still,  his  head  again  bent,  while  he  stared  at  the 
red  and  purple  quarries.  He  could  not  trust  himself 
to  move  by  so  much  as  an  inch  lest  he  should  betray 
the  repulsion  with  which  she  inspired  him.  Meanwhile 
his  mind  worked  like  some  high-powered  engine  at  full 
pressure,  for,  indeed,  the  situation  was  extravagant  in 
its  unpleasantness.  How  to  say  anything  conclusive 
without  assuming  too  much  passed  human  wit.  Yet 
what  more  fatuous,  what  more  execrably  bad  taste  than 
to  assume  just  that  too  much  ?  He  wanted  to  spare 
the  poor  woman,  and  act  toward  her  with  as  perfect 
charity,  as  perfect  good  breeding,  as  he  might. 

"This  is  what  I  have  so  wanted  to  tell  you,  Adrian," 
Joanna  went  on.  "Lately  I  have  felt  quite  differently 
about  my  unfortunate  brother,  about  poor  Bibby,  of 
whose  unhappy  career  I  spoke  to  you  when  you  were  here 
before.  I  have  learned  to  think  differently  upon  many 
subjects  in  the  last  three  months — " 

Joanna  paused,  pressing  her  hands  againsther  forehead. 

"  Yes — upon  many,  many  subjects,"  she  said.  "  That 
is  natural,  inevitable,  with  the  wonderful  prospect  which 
lies  before  me." 

The  young  man  braced  himself,  each  muscle  growing 
taut,  as  a  man  braces  himself  for  a  life-and-death  fight. 
But  he  did  not  alter  his  position. 

"  When  we  talked  of  my  brother  before,  I  told  you — 
I  thought  it  right  to  do  so — that  I  proposed  to  put 
aside  the  larger  portion  of  my  fortune  for  his  benefit. 
I  believed  it  my  duty  to  do  my  utmost  to  make 
amends  for  papa's  harshness  toward  him.  But  since 
then  I  have  come  to  see  the  matter  in  a  different  light.  I 
no  longer  feel  that  my  brother  has  the  first  claim  upon 
me.  I  no  longer  believe  my  first  duty  is  to  Bibby.  It 
is  to  some  one  else.  And  I  have  ceased  to  believe  he  is 
still  living.  A  strange  and  deepening  conviction  has 
grown  upon  me  that  he  is  dead." 

236 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Adrian's  muscles  relaxed.  He  threw  back  his  head 
and  looked  into  the  sky,  into  the  strong,  steady  sunlight. 
For  hearing  Joanna's  last  words,  he  hailed  salvation- 
salvation  coming,  be  it  added,  from  the  very  queerest 
and  most  unexpected  quarter. 

"Consequently  I  have  decided  to  alter  my  will," 
Joanna  continued.  "I  scrutinized  my  own  motives 
carefully.  I  have  earnestly  tried  not  to  be  unduly  in- 
fluenced by  my  own  inclinations,  but  to  do  what  is  just 
and  right.  I  have  not  yet  spoken  to  Margaret  about  it, 
but  I  intend  to  make  a  redistribution  of  my  property, 
devoting  that  portion  of  it  which  I  held  in  reserve  for 
my  brother  to  another  person — I  mean  another  purpose. 
Under  my  altered  circumstances  I  feel  not  only  that  I 
am  justified  in  doing  this,  but  that  it  has  become  an 
imperative  obligation.  Were  my  poor  brother  still  living 
the  news  of  papa's  death  must  have  reached  him  by  this 
time  and  he  would  have  communicated  either  with 
Andrew  Merriman  or  with  me.  As  he  has  not  com- 
municated with  either  of  us,  I  am  free  to  assume  the 
fact  of  his  death  You  agree  with  me,  Adrian?  I  am 
at  liberty  to  make  this  redistribution  of  my  property? 
You — you  assent?" 

"Since  you  are  good  enough  to  ask  my  advice,  dear 
cousin,"  Adrian  said,  looking  upon  the  ground  and 
speaking  quietly  and  distinctly,  "I  am  compelled 
to  answer  you  truthfully.  You  are  not  free  at  the 
present  time,  in  my  opinion,  to  make  any  alteration  in 
your  will  which  affects  your  bequest  to  your  brother." 

"But,"  Joanna  protested,  with  a  smoldering  violence, 
"but  if  I  am  certain,  morally  certain,  that  my  unfor- 
tunate brother  is  dead?" 

Putting  a  strong  force  upon  himself,  Adrian  leaned 
sideways  in  his  chair,  again  crossing  his  legs,  turning  his 
face  toward  Joanna,  and  looking  gravely  and  kindly  at 
her. 

"Dear  cousin,"  he  said,  "perhaps  I  should  have  acted 
237 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

more  wisely  had  I  written  or  spoken  to  you  before 
now  of  a  certain  discovery  which  I  happened,  acciden- 
tally, to  make  immediately  after  my  return  to  France. 
I  hesitated  after  the  exhausting  experiences  you  had 
recently  passed  through  to  subject  you  to  further 
anxiety  and  suspense  or  to  raise  hopes  which  might  be 
fated  to  disappointment.  But  I  possess  evidence — to 
myself  conclusive — that  your  brother  was  living  as 
lately  as  three  months  ago;  that  in  February  last  he 
was  in  Paris.  Yes,  I  know,  I  sympathize — I  readily 
comprehend,"  he  went  on,  feelingly,  "how  greatly  this 
information  is  calculated  to  surprise  you.  On  that 
account  I  have  withheld  it,  and  I  grieve  it  is  not  pos- 
sible to  soften  the  shock  of  it  by  giving  a  happy  account 
of  your  brother's  state  of  mind  or  of  his  circumstances." 

Here  the  speaker  stopped,  for  Joanna  raised  her  hand 
with  an  almost  menacing  gesture. 

"Wait,  Adrian,"  she  cried,  "wait!  I  cannot  bear  any 
more  at  present.  I  must  accustom  myself  to  this  idea. 
It  means  so  much,  so  dreadfully  much.  I  must  have 
time  to  think." 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHICH     PLAYS     SEESAW     BETWEEN     A     GAME     OP     LAWN- 
TENNIS    AND    A    PRODIGAL    SON 

COMING  in  by  the  wicket  gate  from  the  carriage- 
drive,  Challoner  sauntered  with  a  deliberate  and 
even  proprietary  tread  along  the  shrubbery  path  skirting 
the  eastern  side  of  the  lawn.  He  was  clothed,  with  a 
view  to  sports  and  pastimes,  in  a  loosely  fitting  gray 
Norfolk  jacket,  white  trousers,  and  a  hard,  white  straw 
hat,  the  low  crown  of  it  encircled  by  a  band  of  purple- 
and-scarlet-striped  ribbon.  The  said  hat,  set  on  the 
top  of  his  tall,  upright  head  and  neck,  and  straight, 
solid  figure,  gave  him — in  outline — an  appearance  re- 
markably suggestive  of  a  large  medicine  bottle  with  the 
cork  rammed  well  in.  Over  his  shoulder  he  carried  a 
racket,  from  which  dangled  a  pair  of  by  no  means 
diminutive  tennis  shoes. 

Only  recently  had  Challoner  received  invitations  to 
the  Tower  House  of  this  purely  social  character.  They 
gave  him  the  warmest  satisfaction,  as  marking  progress 
toward  the  goal  of  his  ambitions.  He  had  been  elected 
to  the  Baughurst  Park  Ward;  by  a  narrow  majority, 
it  is  true,  still  he  had  been  elected — and  that  was  the  main 
thing,  since  it  supplied  a  secure  basis  from  which  to 
manceuver.  Before  the  next  election,  if  all  went  well 
— and  he  would  compel  all,  never  fear,  tc  go  well — he 
would  be  in  a  position  to  ride  rough-shod  over  the 
Baughurst  Park  Ward,  herding  its  voters  to  the  poll  like 
so  many  obedient  sheep.  His  wits  and  professional 
standing    plus    Margaret    Smyrthwaite's    fortune    and 

239 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

social  standing  would  make  him  master  not  only  of  the 
Baughurst  Park  Ward,  but  of  all  Stourmouth.  Yes, 
Sir  Joseph  and  Lady  Challoner,  sons,  perhaps,  at  Eton, 
daughters  presented  at  Court  and  marrying  into  the 
peerage!  Such  beatific  visions  floated  before  him, 
and  Challoner  felt  then,  indeed,  he  would  not  have 
lived  in  vain.  The  job  of  uprooting  and  deporting 
Mrs.  Gwynnie  had  been  a  nasty  one.  It  hit  him  very 
hard  at  the  time.  There  were  moments  of  it  he  didn't 
care  to  remember  very  clearly  even  now.  But,  as  he 
sauntered  slowly  in  the  still  afternoon  heat  through  the 
aromatic  atmosphere  of  the  radiant  garden,  and  glanced 
up  at  the  imposing  mass  of  the  big  red  house,  its  gilt 
weather-vane  cutting  into  the  blazing  blue,  he  thanked 
Almighty  God  from  his  heart,  piously,  that  he  had  had 
the  pluck,  and  forethought,  and  resolution  to  go 
through  with  that  nasty  job  of  uprooting  and  deporta- 
tion. Only  weak  men  let  women  wreck  them;  and, 
thank  God,  he,  Joseph  Challoner,  wasn't  weak.  Mean- 
while —  here  piety  had  the  grace  to  walk  out  and 
let  honest  cynicism  walk  in,  winking  —  meanwhile 
Margaret  Smyrthwaite  grew  better-looking  and  more 
accessible  every  day.  Yes,  unquestionably  Providence 
is  on  the  side  of  the  clear-headed,  helping  those  who 
help  themselves,  who  know  the  chance  of  their  lives 
when  it  comes  along  and  don't  allow  sentimental 
scruples  to  prevent  their  fixing  right  on  to  it.  Only  the 
unfit  go  under — such,  for  instance,  as  that  flimsy  little 
baggage,  Mrs.  Gwynnie.  And,  if  you  look  at  things  all 
round  calmly  and  scientifically,  how  very  much  better 
for  everybody  concerned,  public  morals  included,  that 
under  such  very  unfit  little  feminine  baggages  should 
very  completely  and  finally  go! 

Chewing  the  cud  of  which  philosophic  reflections, 
Challoner  pursued  his  prosperous  and  contented  way. 
From  the  tennis  court  the  players  waved  and  called 
their    greetings    as    he    approached    them.     Margaret 

240 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Smyrthwaite,  leaving  her  seat  in  front  of  the  pavilion, 
came  forward  to  meet  him,  her  smart  black  figure  and 
enormous  hat  backed  by  a  bank  of  crimson  and  pink 
rhododendron  in  full  blossom.  She  moved  with  the 
rather  studied  grace  of  a  girl  who  expects,  and  is  alto- 
gether ready,  to  be  admired.  Challoner  had  no  quarrel 
with  this.  For  his  taste  she  could  not  be  too  ornate. 
He  appraised  her  appearance,  her  costume,  the  general 
effect  of  her,  as  he  might  a  fine  piece  of  plate  for  his 
table.  Well,  didn't  he  propose  she  should  be,  in  a  sense, 
just  that — his  domestic  and  social  centerpiece?  The 
more  glory  to  him,  then,  the  more  expensive  she  looked ! 
And  she  could  afford  to  look  expensive,  thank  God! — 
here  piety  stepped  in  again  momentarily. — And  he  could 
afford  to  let  her  look  so ;  for  once  that  handsome  fortune 

of  hers  in  his  keeping,  be  d d  if  he  would  not  double 

or  treble  it. 

He  raised  his  hat  and  stood  with  it  in  his  hand.  His 
eyes  covered  her  covetously.  If  she  wanted  admiration, 
it  was  hers  to  order.  He  could  supply  a  perfectly  genu- 
ine article  in  unlimited  quantity.  And,  though  his 
countenance  was  not  an  expressive  one,  he  contrived 
to  convey  the  above  information  to  her  quite  clearly. 
The  young  lady  responded.  She  talked  of  the  weather, 
the  heat,  the  game,  and  such-like  inanities;  but  she  dis- 
played her  fine  plumage  and  trailed  her  wings  all  the 
while.  Challoner  began  to  think  of  a  game  of  tennis  as 
a  wholesome  corrective.  The  temperature  became 
high  in  more  senses  than  the  meteorologic  one.  Pres- 
ently she  made  a  gesture  calling  his  attention  to  her 
sister  and  Adrian  Savage  sitting  on  the  veranda;  smiled 
slyly,  looking  up  at  him,  and  then  turned  and  sauntered 
a  few  steps  beside  him  back  along  the  path. 

Witnessing  all  which  suggestive  pantomime  from  his 
distant  station,  Adrian  had  much  ado  to  maintain  an 
attitude  of  circumspection  and  restraint.  For  was  it 
conceivable  that  those  two — Margaret  and  Challoner— in 

241 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

any  degree  shared,  or  affected  to  share,  poor  Joanna's 
infatuated  delusion?  Was  ever  man  landed  in  so  false 
a  position!  An  atmosphere  of  intrigue  surrounded 
him.  He  felt  as  though  walking  among  treacherous 
quicksands,  where  every  step  spells  danger  of  being 
sucked  under  and  engulfed.  Inwardly  he  tore  and 
plunged,  cursing  against  the  hateful,  the  dishonoring 
silence  imposed  upon  him  by  circumstance.  He  was 
tempted  to  rush  out  on  to  the  sun-bathed  lawn,  regardless 
of  all  mercy,  of  all  decorum,  and  shout  to  the  four  winds 
of  heaven  his  unique,  inextinguishable  devotion  to 
Gabrielle  St.  Leger,  his  sole  desire  and  love!  Only  by 
some  such  public  loud-tongued  demonstration  did  he 
feel  he  could  regain  safe  foothold  and  cleanse  his  honor 
from  the  detestable  and  insidious  duplicity  fathered 
upon  him  through  no  act  or  lapse  of  his. 

But  here  Joanna's  voice  once  more  claimed  his  atten- 
tion. It  still  hissed  and  whispered,  causing  him  shrink- 
ing and  repulsion.  Yet  he  detected  a  change  in  the 
spirit  of  it.  Some  finer,  more  wholesome  chord  had 
been  struck.     She  no  longer  cringed. 

"I  am  ready  now,  Cousin  Adrian,"  she  said,  "to  hear 
that  which  you  have  to  tell  me  about  my  brother." 

And  the  young  man,  finding  relief  to  his  pent-up  feel- 
ings in  voluminous  and  rapid  speech,  told  her  how,  call- 
ing late  one  night  upon  an  old  school-fellow,  a  widely 
known  draftsman  and  caricaturist,  he  had  seen  certain 
drawings — here  Adrian  picked  his  phrases  a  little — 
representing  a  young  man  of  six  or  seven  and  twenty — 
"Who,"  he  said,  "bore  such  a  striking  resemblance  to 
you,  my  dear  cousin,  and  to  Margaret,  that  I  was  trans- 
fixed with  veritable  amazement.  I  do  not  disguise 
from  you  that  I  was  also  pained,  that  for  the  moment  I 
was  furious.  For  these  pictures  were  objectionable  in 
character,  in  many  respects  odious.  It  appeared  to 
me  my  friend  had  been  guilty  of  an  outrage  for  which 
it  was  my  duty  to  administer  sharp  chastisement.     But 

242 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

I  could  demand  no  immediate  satisfaction,  because  he 
and  I  had  already  quarreled  that  evening,  and  he  con- 
cealed himself  from  me,  thereby  rendering  it  impracti- 
cable that  I  should  question  him.  This,  perhaps,  was 
as  well,  since  I  was  heated  and  it  gave  me  space  for 
reflection.  I  realized  the  extreme  improbability  of 
his  ever  having  seen  either  you  or  your  sister — the 
absolute  impossibility  of  his  having  done  so  recent- 
ly, as  you  had  been  at  home  in  England  for  some 
years.  Then  I  recalled  the  pathetic  history  of  your 
brother  which  you  had  confided  to  me.  I  grasped  the 
situation.  I  understood.  I  called  upon  my  friend 
next  day.  Still  he  was  rancorous.  He  flew  into  a 
passion  and  refused  to  admit  me.  I  restrained  my  re- 
sentment. I  wrote  to  him  explaining  the  gravity  and 
urgency  of  the  case.  I  appealed  to  his  better  nature,  en- 
treated him  to  be  reasonable  and  to  give  me  information. 
Indeed,  I  conducted  myself  with  praiseworthy  reticence, 
while  he  remained  obstinate  to  the  point  of  exasperation. 
Upon  more  than  one  count,  I  fear,  I  should  have  derived 
the  very  warmest  satisfaction  from  wringing  his  neck." 

Adrian's  handsome  eyes  danced  and  glittered.  His 
teeth  showed  white  and  wicked  under  his  fly-away 
mustache. 

"  Yes,  I,  on  my  side,  also  possibly  harbored  a  trifle  of 
rancor,"  he  said.  "But  I  suppressed  my  legitimate 
annoyance.  I  ignored  his  provocations.  I  insisted. 
At  last  I  elicited  this  much." 

"That  was  very  noble  of  you;  still  it  distresses  me 
that,  indirectly,  I  should  have  caused  you  this  trouble. 
Though  I  am  grateful — some  day  I  may  find  words  in 
which  to  tell  you  how  grateful,"  Joanna  whispered,  lean- 
ing forward  and  working  her  hands  together  nervously 
in  her  black  alpaca  lap. 

All  of  which  served  to  bring  Adrian,  who  had  grown 
quite  comparatively  at  ease  and  happy  in  his  subjective 
belaborings  of  The  Unspeakable  Tadpole,  back  to  the 

243 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

entanglements  and  distractions  of  the  immediate  present, 
with  a  bounce. 

"Upon  my  word,  my  dear  Joanna,"  he  replied  almost 
brusquely,  "I  am  afraid  it  very  much  remains  to  be 
proved  whether  I  deserve  your  gratitude  or  not.  I 
labor  under  the  ungracious  necessity  of  communicating 
much  to  you  that  is  painful,  that  is  sad.  Yet,  having 
gone  thus  far  it  becomes  imperative,  for  many  reasons, 
that  I  should  put  you  in  possession  of  all  the  facts.  Then 
it  will  be  for  you  to  decide  what  further  steps  are  to  be 
taken  next." 

"You  will  know  best — far  best,"  she  murmured. 

The  young  man  set  his  teeth.  Never  before  had  he 
come  so  near  being  cruel  to  a  woman.  Instinctively 
he  crossed  himself.  Sancta  Maria,  Mater  Dei,  in  mercy 
preserve  him  from  the  guilt  of  so  dastardly  a  sin!  He 
turned  to  Joanna  and  spoke,  dealing  out  his  words 
slowly,  so  that  the  full  meaning  of  them  might  reach  her 
beclouded,  love-sick  brain. 

"My  friend,  Rend  Dax,  found  this  young  man,  whose 
likeness  to  you  and  your  sister  is  so  indisputable,  so 
intimate,  in  the  act  of  attempting  his  life." 

"Ah!  Bibby,  Bibby!"  Joanna  cried  harshly,  throw- 
ing back  her  head. 

"Yes,"  Adrian  continued,  pursuing  his  advantage, 
"unnerved  by  the  horror  of  his  friendless  and  destitute 
condition,  the  unhappy  boy  was  about  to  throw  himself 
from  one  of  the  bridges  into  the  Seine.  At  his  age  one 
must  have  suffered  very  greatly  to  take  refuge  in  that ! 
But  from  the  drawings  of  which  I  have  spoken  one  can 
form  only  too  forcible  a  conception  of  his  desperation. 
They  supply  a  human  document  of  a  deplorably  convin- 
cing order.  Rend,  who,  notwithstanding  his  eccentricity, 
possesses  admirable  instincts,  struggled  with  him  and 
succeeded  in  preventing  the  accomplishment  of  his  fatal 
design.  Then,  forcing  him  into  a  passing  cab — kid- 
napping him,  in  short — carried  him  off  with  him  home." 

244 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"Oh,  wait,  wait!"  Joanna  broke  in.  "This  is  all  so 
very  dreadful.  It  is  so  remote  from  my  experience, 
from  all  I  am  accustomed  to,  from  all  the  habits  and  pur- 
poses of  my  life.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  self-indulgent  and 
shirk  my  duty.  I  wish  to  hear  the  whole,  Cousin  Adrian ; 
but  I  must  pause.  I  must  recover  and  collect  myself, 
if  I  am  to  follow  your  narrative  intelligently." 

Just  then  Joseph  Challoner,  having  laid  aside  hat 
and  jacket  and  put  on  tennis  shoes,  came  out  of  the 
pavilion  and  joined  the  group,  gathered  around  Margaret 
Smyrthwaite,  on  the  terraced  grass  bank  of  the  court. 
Challoner  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  formidable 
player,  his  height,  and  reach,  and  sureness  of  eye  more 
than  counterbalancing  any  lack  of  agility.  It  may  be 
added  that,  along  with  a  losing  game,  he  had  the  reputa- 
tion of  too  often  mislaying  his  manners  and  losing  his 
temper.  But  this  afternoon  no  question  presented  it- 
self of  losing  either  game  or  temper.  He  had  practised 
regularly  lately.  He  felt  in  fine  form.  He  felt  in  high 
good  humor.  While  both  sense  and  senses  called  for 
strong  physical  exercise  as  a  wholesome  outlet  to  emotion. 

Amid  discussion  and  laughter,  Marion  Chase  tossed  for 
partners.  The  elder  of  the  Busbridge  boys  fell  to  her 
lot,  the  younger  to  Challoner's,  and  the  set  began.  Mar- 
garet returned  to  her  chair,  and  Amy  Woodford  lolled 
on  the  pavilion  step,  in  the  shadow  close  beside  her, 
fanning  a  very  pink  face  with  a  large  palm-leaf  fan. 
As  the  game  progressed  the  two  girls  commented  and 
applauded,  with  clapping  of  hands  and  derisive  or  encour- 
aging titterings  and  cries.  Against  this  gaily  explosive 
feminine  duet,  the  rapid  thud  of  balls,  and  sharp  calling 
of  the  score,  Joanna's  voice  asserted  itself,  with — to  her 
hearer — a  consuming  dreariness  of  interminable  and 
fruitless  moral  effort,  a  grayness  of  perpetual  non-arrival, 
perpetual  frustration,  misconception  and  mistake. 

"I  am  composed  now,  Adrian,"  she  said.  "My  will 
again  controls  my  feelings.     Please  tell  me  the  rest." 

245 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"  I  am  afraid  there  is  disappointingly  little  more  to 
tell,"  he  replied.  "For  two  days  the  unfortunate  boy 
remained  with  my  friend  as  his  guest.  Rene"  clothed 
him  properly,  fed  and  cared  for  him,  and  paid  him  liber- 
ally for  his  services  as  a  model.  But  on  the  third  morn- 
ing, under  plea  of  requiring  to  obtain  some  particular 
drug  from  a  neighboring  pharmacy,  the  young  man  left 
my  friend's  studio.     He  did  not  return." 

"Where  did  he  go?" 

"That  is  what  I  have  asked  myself  a  thousand  times, 
and  made  every  effort  to  discover.  I  have  friends  at  the 
Prefecture  of  Police.  I  consulted  them.  They  were 
generous  in  their  readiness  to  put  their  knowledge  at 
my  disposal  and  aid  me  in  my  research.  Unluckily  I 
could  only  give  them  a  verbal  description  of  the  missing 
man,  for  Rene"  refused  me  all  assistance,  refused  to  allow 
any  police  agent  to  view  the  drawings,  refused  even  to 
allow  photographs  of  them  to  be  taken.  To  do  so,  he 
declared,  would  constitute  an  unpardonable  act  of 
treachery,  a  violation  of  hospitality  and  crime  against 
his  own  good  faith.  The  unhappy  fellow  had  trusted 
him  on  the  understanding  that  no  inquiry  would  be 
made  regarding  his  family  or  his  name.  Now  the  epi- 
sode was  closed.  Rene"  did  not  want  it  reopened.  He 
had  other  things  to  think  about.  .  Rather  than  have  the 
drawings  employed  for  purposes  of  identification,  he 
would  destroy  them,  obliterate  them  with  a  coat  of 
paint.  When  it  became  evident,  however,  the  young 
man  had  disappeared  for  good  Rent's  valet,  less  scrupu- 
lous than  his  master,  carefully  examined  the  wretched 
clothes  he  had  left  behind.  Between  the  lining  and 
stuff  of  the  jacket  he  found  a  small  photograph.  It 
must  have  worked  through  from  a  rent  in  the  breast- 
pocket. Though  creased  and  defaced,  the  subject  of  it 
was  still  in  a  degree  distinguishable.  I  did  not  wish 
to  agitate  you,  my  dear  cousin,  by  communicating  this 
matter  to  you  until  I  had  made  further  efforts  to  discover 

246 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

the  truth.  I  sent  the  photograph  to  Mr.  Merriman. 
He  tells  me  it  represents  the  garden  front  of  your  old 
house,  Highdene,  near  Leeds." 

Joanna  neither  moved  nor  spoke,  though  her  breath 
sighed  and  caught.  The  sounds  from  the  tennis  court, 
meanwhile,  increased  both  in  volume  and  in  animation, 
causing  Adrian  to  look  up. 

Challoner  stood  as  near  to  the  net  as  is  permissible, 
volleying  or  smashing  down  ball  after  ball,  until  his 
opponents  began  to  lose  heart  and  science  and  grow 
harried  and  spent.  And  Adrian,  watching,  found  him- 
self, though  unwillingly,  impressed  by  and  admiring  the 
force,  not  only  the  great  brute  strength  but  deter- 
mination of  the  man,  which  bestowed  a  certain  dig- 
nity upon  the  game,  raising  it  from  the  level  of  a  mere 
amusement  to  that  of  a  serious  duel.  And  across  the 
intervening  space  Challoner  became  sensible  of  that 
unwilling  admiration — the  admiration  of  a  quasi-enemy, 
curiously  supplementing  another  admiration  of  which  he 
was  also  conscious — namely,  that  of  Margaret  Smyrth- 
waite,  of  the  woman  who  craves  to  be  justified,  by  public 
exhibition  of  his  skill  and  prowess,  of  the  man  to  whom 
she  meditates  intrusting  her  person  and  her  fate.  This 
excited  Challoner,  flattering  his  pride,  stimulating  his  am- 
bition and  belief  in  himself. — Yes,  he  would  show  them  all 
what  he  was  made  of,  show  them  all  what  he  could  do,  what 
he  was  worth !  So  that  now  he  no  longer  played  simply 
to  win  a  set  at  tennis  from  a  harmless,  lanky  Busbridge 
boy  and  amazon-like  Marion  Chase;  but  to  revenge 
himself  for  Adrian  Savage's  past  distrust  of  him,  detec- 
tion and  prevention  of  his  shady  little  business  tricks, 
played  to  revenge  himself  for  the  younger  man's  superior- 
ity in  breeding,  knowledge  of  the  world,  culture,  talents, 
charm  of  manner  and  of  looks.  He  gave  himself  to  the 
paying  off  of  old  scores  in  that  game  of  tennis,  all  his 
bullying  instinct,  his  necessity  to  beat  down  and  trample 
Opposition  under  foot,   actively   militant.      Yet    since 

247 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Margaret  Smyrthwaite's  approval,  not  to  mention  her 
goodly  fortune,  came  into  reckoning,  the  bullying  in- 
stinct made  him  deadly  cool  and  cunning  rather  than 
headlong  or  reckless  in  his  play. 

Presently  Joanna  silently  motioned  Adrian  once  again 
to  take  up  his  sordid  story.  And  with  a  feeling  of  rather 
hopeless  weariness  he  obeyed,  recounting  his  scouring  of 
Paris,  accompanied  by  a  private  detective.  Told  her 
of  clues  found,  or  apparently  found,  only  again  to  be 
lost.  Told  her,  incidentally,  a  little  about  the  haunts 
of  vagabondage  and  crime  and  vice,  of  the  seething, 
foul-smelling,  festering  under-world  which  there,  as  in 
every  great  city,  lies  below  the  genial  surface  of  things, 
ready  to  drag  down  and  absorb  the  friendless  and  the 
weak.  So  doing  —  while  he  still  watched  Challoner, 
and  divined  much  of  the  human  drama  -  finding  ex- 
pression in  his  masterful  manipulation  of  racket  and  ball 
— Adrian's  imagination  took  fire.  He  forgot  his  com- 
panion, gave  reign  to  his  natural  eloquence  and  described 
certain  scenes,  certain  episodes,  with  only  too  telling 
effect. 

"But  you  must  have  been  exposed  to  great  danger," 
she  broke  in  breathlessly  at  last. 

"Ah!  like  that!"  he  cried,  shrugging  his  shoulders  and 
laughing  a  little  fiercely.  "Danger  is,  after  all,  an 
excellent  sauce  to  meat.  I  had  entire  confidence  in  the 
loyalty  and  discretion  of  my  companion,  and  we  were 
armed." 

Joanna  got  up,  pushing  away  her  chair,  which  scrooped 
upon  the  quarries. 

"And  you  did  all  this  for  me — for  my  sake,  because 
Bibby  is  my  brother!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  risked 
contracting  some  illness,  receiving  some  injury!  For  me, 
because  of  Bibby's  relation  to  me,  you  endangered  your 
life!" 

"  But  in  point  of  fact,  I  didn't  suffer  in  the  least,  my 
dear  Joanna,"  he  replied,  rising  also.     "I  enlarged  my 

248 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

acquaintance  with  a  city  of  which  I  am  quite  incorrig- 
ibly fond;  which,  even  at  her  dirtiest  and  naughtiest, 
I  very  heartily  love.  And  here  I  am,  as  you  see! 
in  excellent  health,  perfectly  intact,  ready  to  start  on 
my  voyage  of  discovery  again  to-morrow,  if  there  should 
seem  any  reasonable  hope  of  its  being  crowned  with 
success.  Common  humanity  demands  that  much  of  me. 
One  cannot  let  a  fellow-creature,  especially  one  who  has 
the  claim  of  kinship,  perish  in  degradation  and  misery 
without  making  every  rational  effort  to  rescue  and  re- 
habilitate him." 

Joanna  hardly  appeared  to  listen.  She  moved  to 
and  fro,  her  arms  hanging  straight  at  her  sides,  her 
hands  opening  and  closing  in  nervous,  purposeless  clutch- 
ings. 

"No,"  she  declared  violently,  "no!  When  I  think  of 
the  risks  which  you  have  exposed  yourself,  and  the 
shocking  and  cruel  things  which  might  have  happened  to 
you,  I  cannot  control  my  indignation.  When  I  think 
that  Bibby  might  have  been  the  cause  of  your  death  no 
vestige  of  affection  for  him  is  left  in  me.  None — none — 
I  cast  him  out  of  my  heart.  Yes,  it  is  dreadful.  Look- 
ing back,  all  the  anguish  of  which  my  brother  has  been 
the  cause  is  present  to  me — the  constant  anxiety  which 
his  conduct  gave  rise  to,  the  concealments  mamma  and  I 
had  to  practise  to  shield  him  from  papa's  anger,  the 
atmosphere  of  nervousness  and  unrest  which,  owing  to 
him,  embittered  my  girlhood.  He  was  the  cause  of 
estrangement  between  my  parents;  between  papa  and 
myself.  He  was  the  cause  of  the  break-up  of  our  home 
at  Leeds,  of  the  severing  of  old  friendships  and  associa- 
tions, of  the  sense  of  disgrace  which  for  so  many  years 
lay  upon  our  whole  establishment.  It  destroyed  my 
mother's  health.  It  emphasized  the  unsympathetic 
tendencies  of  my  father's  character.  And  now,  now, 
when  so  much  has  happened  to  redress  the  unhappiness 
of  the  past,  to  glorify  and  enlarge  my  life,  when  my 

249 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

future  is  so  inexpressibly  full  of  hope  and  promise,  it  is 
too  much,  too  much,  that  my  brother  should  reappear, 
that  he  should  intervene  between  us,  Adrian,  between 
you  and  me — endangering  your  actual  existence.  And 
he  will  come  back — I  know  it,  I  feel  it,"  she  added  wildly. 
"I  believed  him  dead  because  I  wished  him  dead.  I 
still  wish  it.     But  that  is  useless — useless." 

And,  as  though  in  ironic  applause  of  Joanna's  passion- 
ate denunciation,  the  two  young  ladies  watching  the 
game  of  tennis  broke  into  enthusiastic  hand-clapping. 

"Well  played — good — good — splendid — played  in- 
deed!" they  cried,  their  voices  ringing  out  through  the 
still,  hot  air. 

Marion  Chase  flung  herself  down  on  the  terraced  grass- 
bank. 

"You're  out  of  sight  too  strong  for  us,"  she  gasped, 
laughingly.     "We  didn't  have  the  ghost  of  a  chance." 

Challoner  stood  wiping  his  face  and  neck  with  his 
handkerchief.  He  was  puffed  up  with  pride,  almost 
boisterously  exultant.  Ah!  yes,  let  the  hen-bird  display 
her  fine  plumage  and  trail  her  wings  ever  so  prettily, 
when  it  came  to  a  fight  the  cock-bird  had  his  innings, 
and  could  show  he  wasn't  lacking  in  virility  or  spunk! 
He'd  given  them  all  a  taste  of  his  metal  this  afternoon, 
he  flattered  himself;  taught  them  Joseph  Challoner  was 
something  more  than  a  common  low-caste,  office-bred, 
country  attorney,  half  sharper,  half  lick-spittle  sneak! 

"The  gray  mare  isn't  the  better  horse  yet  awhile,  eh, 
Miss  Marion,  your  friends  the  suffragettes  notwith- 
standing?" he  said,  jocosely.  "All  the  same,  I  congratu- 
late you.     You  and  your  partner  made  a  plucky  stand." 

The  elder  Busbridge  boy  lay  on  his  back,  panting  and 
tightening  the  supporting  silk  handkerchief  about  his 
lean  young  waist. 

"My  hat!  that  last  rally  was  a  breather  though,"  he 
grunted.  "I  got  regularly  fed  up  with  the  way  you 
kept  me  bargeing  from  side  to  side  of  that  back  court, 

250 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Challoner.  Double-demon,  all-round  champion  terrifier 
— that's  about  the  name  to  suit  you,  my  good  chap." 

Joanna  had  come  close  to  Adrian.  Her  prominent 
eyes  were  strained  and  clouded.  Seam-like  lines  showed 
in  her  forehead  and  cheeks.  Her  poor  mouth  looked 
bruised,  the  outline  of  her  lips  frayed  and  discolored. 
Her  likeness  to  the  drawings  upon  the  wall  was  phenom- 
enal just  then.  It  shocked  Adrian,  and  it  caused  him 
to  think. 

"They  have  finished  playing,"  she  said.  "They  will 
come  in  to  tea  directly.  I  cannot  remain  and  meet 
them.  I  must  show  some  respect  for  my  own  dignity. 
They  are  all  Margaret's  friends.  I  do  not  care  for  them. 
I  cannot  expose  myself  to  their  observation.  She  must 
entertain  them  herself.  I  will  go  to  my  room.  I  must 
be  alone  until  I  have  had  time  to  regain  my  composure, 
until  I  know  my  own  thought  about  this  cruel,  cruel 
event;  until  I  have  recovered  in  some  degree  from  the 
shock  I  have  suffered,  and  begin  to  see  what  my  duty  is." 

17 


CHAPTER  VII 

PISTOLS    OR    POLITENESS — FOR   TWO 

"HPHIS  is  the  last  of  the  documents,  Mr.  Challoner?" 

1  "Yes,  that  is  the  last  of  the  lot.  You  noted  the 
contents  of  Shedule  D,  covering  the  period  from  the  end 
of  the  December  quarter  to  the  date  of  Mr.  Smyrth- 
waite's  death,  among  the  Priestly  Mills  statement  of 
accounts?  The  typed  one — quite  right.  Yes,  that's 
the  lot." 

"We  may  consider  the  whole  of  our  business  con- 
cluded?" 

"That  is  so,"  Challoner  said. 

He  stood  in  an  easy  attitude  resting  his  elbow  on  the 
shelf  of  the  red  porphyry  mantelpiece  of  the  smoking- 
room  at  Heatherleigh — a  heavily  furnished  apartment, 
the  walls  hung  with  chocolate-colored  imitation  leather, 
in  a  raised  self-colored  pattern  of  lozenge-shaped  medal- 
lions, each  centered  with  a  Tudor  rose.  The  successes 
of  the  afternoon  still  inflated  him.  In  addition  to  his 
triumphs  in  sports  and  pastimes,  he  had  managed  to 
say  five  words  to  Margaret  Smyrthwaite.  And,  though 
the  crucial  question  had  neither  been  asked  nor  answered, 
he  felt  sure  of  her  at  last.  His  humor  was  hilarious  and 
expansive — of  the  sort  which  chucks  young  women  under 
the  chin,  digs  old  gentlemen  in  the  ribs  or  slaps  them 
familiarly  upon  the  back.  There  was  a  covert  sneer  in 
the  tail  of  Challoner's  eye  and  a  braggart  tang  in  his 
talk.  He  swaggered,  every  inch  of  his  big  body  pleased 
with  living,  almost  brutally  self-congratulatory  and 
content. 

252 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"I  am  really  under  considerable  obligation  to  you 
for  giving  up  your  evening  to  me,  and  letting  me  finish 
our  business  after  office-hours  thus.  It  will  enable  me 
to  catch  the  night  cross-Channel  boat  from  Dover  to- 
morrow.    I  shall  be  particularly  glad  to  do  so." 

As  he  spoke,  Adrian  swung  round  the  revolving  chair, 
in  which  he  sat  before  the  large  writing-table — loaded 
with  bundles  of  folded  papers,  and  legal  documents 
engrossed  on  vellum  tied  round  with  pink  tape.  In 
turning,  the  light  from  the  shaded  incandescent  gas-lamp, 
hanging  directly  above  the  table,  brought  his  black  hair 
and  beard  and  white  face  into  the  high  relief  of  some 
Rembrandt  portrait. 

"What's  up  with  young  Master  Highty  Tighty?" 
Challoner  asked  himself.  "Looks  off  color,  somehow, 
as  if  he'd  had  an  uncommon  nasty  blow  below  the  belt." 

The  windows  and  glass  door  stood  open  on  to  the  gar- 
den, and  the  pungent  scents  of  the  great  fir  woods 
drawn  forth  by  the  day's  sunshine  mingled  with  that  of 
Challoner's  cigar  and  Adrian's  cigarette. 

"Oh!  so  you're  off  at  once  then,  are  you?"  the  former 
said.  "That's  something  new,  isn't  it?  I  understood 
from  the  ladies  you  thought  of  stopping  on  here  a  bit. 
And  when  may  we  hope  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
again  on  this  side  of  the  silver  strip  ?" 

Adrian  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  stretching  out  his 
legs  and  crossing  his  feet. 

"  At  the  present  time  I  really  have  no  idea,"  he  replied. 

Challoner  could  hardly  conceal  his  glee.  For  an 
instant  he  debated.  Concluded  he  would  venture  on  a 
reconnaissance.     Flicked  the  end  off  his  cigar  into  the 

fireplace. 

"Miss  Joanna  will  be  sorry,"  he  said. 

"Both  my  cousins  have  been  perfect  in  their  amiabil- 
ity, in  their  hospitality,  in  their  generous  appreciation 
of  any  small  services  it  has  been  in  my  power  to  render 
them,"   Adrian  declared,   rolling  his  r's  and  speaking 

253 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

with  the  hint  of  a  foreign  accent  common  to  him  when 
tired  or  vexed.  "My  cousins  know  that  they  can  com- 
mand my  co-operation  at  a  moment's  notice  should 
they  require  counsel  or  advice.  But  my  own  affairs, 
as  they  kindly  and  readily  comprehend,  cannot  be  too 
long  neglected.  My  interests  and  my  work  are  neces- 
sarily abroad — in  France.  It  becomes  imperative  that 
I  should  return  to  my  work." 

"Not  a  doubt  about  it,"  Challoner  said.  "Work 
stands  first.  Though  I  own  I'm  glad  my  work  doesn't 
oblige  me  to  expatriate  myself.  I  shouldn't  relish  that. 
Not  a  bit.     Poor  old  England's  good  enough  for  me." 

"Precisely — your  interests  and  your  work  are  here." 

Challoner  fitted  the  toe  of  his  boot  into  the  pattern  of 
the  hearth-rug,  looking  down  and  permitting  himself  a 
quiet  laugh. 

"Oh!  Lord,  yes,"  he  said,  "to  be  sure.  My  work  and 
my  interests  are  here  right  enough — very  much  here. 
I'm  not  ashamed  of  the  word  'local,'  or  of  the  word 
'provincial'  either,  Mr.  Savage.  My  father  invented 
Stourmouth,  as  you  may  say,  and  I've  patented  his 
invention.  Stourmouth  owes  a  good  deal  to  the  two 
Joseph  Challoners,  father  and  son;  and  I  propose  it 
should  owe  a  long  sight  more,  one  way  and  another, 
before  I  join  my  poor  old  daddy  'under  the  churchyard 
sod.'" 

"It  is  an  act  of  piety  to  devote  one's  talents  and 
energies  to  the  welfare  of  one's  native  place,"  Adrian 
returned. 

And  therewith,  judging  he  had  made  sufficient  con- 
cession to  the  exigencies  of  the  position  in  the  matter 
of  general  conversation,  he  rose  to  depart.  But  Chal- 
loner stopped  him. 

"Just  half  a  minute,  will  you  please,  Mr.  Savage," 
he  said.  "  It  occurs  to  me  if  we're  not  likely  to  meet  for 
some  time  there's  one  matter  I  ought  to  mention  to  you. 
I  don't  exactly  care  to  take  the  whole  onus  of  the  thing 

254 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

upon  my  own  shoulders.  Of  course,  if  you're  cognizant 
of  it,  there's  the  beginning  and  end  of  the  story  as  far  as 
my  responsibility  goes.  I  may  have  my  own  opinion  as 
to  the  wisdom,  and — not  to  mince  matters — the  honesty 
of  the  arrangement.  But,  if  you  are  aware  of  it  and 
approve,  my  mouth,  of  course,  is  shut.  Has  Miss 
Smyrthwaite  told  you  of  the  alteration  she  proposes 
making  in  her  will?" 

"  Yes,  she  spoke  of  it  to-day;  and  I  dissuaded  her  from 
making  it." 

Challoner  sucked  in  his  breath  with  a  soft  whistle. 

"Indeed?"  he  said.  "That's  a  self-denying  ordi- 
nance." 

Adrian  held  himself  extremely  erect.  His  eyebrows 
were  raised  and  the  tip  of  his  pugnacious  nose  was  very 
much  in  the  air. 

"Pardon  me,  but  I  do  not  quite  follow  you,"  he  said. 

"Miss  Smyrthwaite  didn't  explain  the  nature  of  the 
alterations  very  fully  then,  I  take  it?" 

"My  cousin  informed  me  that  she  proposed  to  revoke 
certain  gifts  and  bequests  she  had  made  to  her  brother, 
William  Smyrthwaite — supposing  him  still  to  be  living. 
Of  this  I  disapproved.  I  told  her  so,  giving  her  the 
reasons  for  my  disapproval." 

Challoner  looked  down  and  fitted  the  toe  of  his  boot 
into  the  hearth-rug  pattern  once  more. 

You  hold  the  property  should  remain  in  the  fam- 
ily— g0  to  the  direct  heirs,  the  next  of  kin  ?  A  very 
sound  principle;  but  one,  if  you'll  excuse  my  saying  so, 
few  persons  stick  to  where  their  personal  advantage  is 
involved." 

"I  repeat,  I  fail  to  follow  you,"  Adrian  returned, 
shrugging  his  shoulders  and  spreading  out  his  hands  with 
an  impatient  movement. 

"Perhaps  Miss  Smyrthwaite  omitted  to  explain  that 
this  redistribution  of  her  property  was  exclusively  in 
your  favor;  all  she  mulcted  her  precious  specimen  of  a 

255 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

brother  of  was  to  go  not  to  her  direct  heir — her  sister — 
but  to  yourself." 

Whereupon,  it  must  be  conceded,  the  younger  man's 
bearing  became  not  a  little  insolent. 

"Preposterous,  my  dear  Challoner,  utterly  prepos- 
terous!" he  cried.  "For  once  your  professional  acumen 
must  have  quite  scandalously  deserted  you,  or  you  could 
not  have  so  misunderstood  my  cousin's  instructions." 

It  was  not  Challoner's  cue  to  lose  his  temper.  He 
had  too  many  causes  for  self-congratulation  to-night. 
And  then,  whether  Adrian  was  bluffing  or  not,  he  be- 
lieved— though  it  was  annoying  to  find  the  young  man 
so  unmercenary — this  repudiation  of  the  proffered  in- 
heritance to  be  sincere. 

"Joanna — Miss  Smyrthwaite,  I  mean,  I  beg  her  par- 
don— is  too  good  a  woman  of  business  to  trust  to  verbal 
instructions.  I  have  got  the  whole  thing  on  paper,  in 
black  and  white,  there" — he  pointed  to  the  table. 
"I  can  lay  my  hand  on  it  in  half  a  minute.  Possibly 
you'd  like  to  look  at  it  yourself,  as  you  appear  to  doubt 
my  word." 

But  for  the  moment  Adrian  was  incapable  of  reply. 
This  was  what  Joanna  had  meant!  It  was  even  worse 
than  he  had  feared.  He  felt  humiliated,  hot  with  shame. 
And  then,  in  spirit,  he  clasped  those  infamous  drawings 
upon  the  wall  and  the  subject  of  them,  Bibby,  the  miser- 
able wastrel  Bibby,  to  his  breast. 

"Do  you  wish  to  look  at  Miss  Smyrthwaite's  instruc- 
tions as  to  the  transfer  of  her  property,  Mr.  Savage?" 
Challoner  repeated,  a  sneer  in  his  voice. 

But  the  young  man  had  recovered  his  native  adroit- 
ness. 

"Clearly  it  would  be  superfluous  for  me  to  do  so;  be- 
cause, as  I  have  already  informed  you,  Miss  Smyrthwaite, 
recognizing  the  validity  of  my  arguments,  decides  to 
cancel  those  instructions,  to  make  no  alteration  in  the 
disposition  of  her  property.     Happily  I  was  in  a  position 

256 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

to  convince  her  that  it  is  premature  to  assume  the  fact  of 
her  brother's  death.  I  have  comparatively  recent  news 
of  him." 

Challoner's  jaw  dropped. 

"  The  devil  you  have,"  he  said,  under  his  breath. 

"  Yes — '  the  devil,'  quite  possibly — as  you  so  delicately 
put  it,"  Adrian  returned,  lightly.  "I  have  been  tempt- 
ed, at  moments,  to  put  it  myself  so,  my  dear  Mr.  Chal- 
loner.  At  others  I  have  seemed  to  trace  a  really  provi- 
dential element  in  this  strange  affair.  Directly  the  facts 
of  William  Smyrthwaite's  reappearance  came  to  my 
knowledge  I  placed  Mr.  Andrew  Merriman  in  full  posses- 
sion of  them." 

"Oh,  you  did,  did  you?"  Challoner  commented. 

"  Yes.  I  considered  this  the  correct  course  to  pursue. 
Mr.  Merriman  was  formerly  employed  by  Mr.  Smyrth- 
waite  as  the  channel  of  communication  between  himself 
and  his  son." 

"Graceless  young  hound!"  Challoner  snarled,  caution 
swamped  by  anger  and  chagrin.  It  made  him  mad 
to  think  Adrian  Savage  had  had  this  eminently  discon- 
certing piece  of  information  up  his  sleeve  all  along! 
Once  more  he'd  been  checkmated. 

"Mr.  Merriman  generously  accepts  all  responsibility 
in  the  conduct  of  this  matter,"  Adrian  went  on.  "And, 
I  am  sure  you  will  feel  with  me,  that  his  long  and  intimate 
connection  with  my  cousins'  family  renders  him  quite 
the  most  suitable  person  to  deal  with  it.  Therefore,  until 
further  developments  declare  themselves — I  beg  your 
pardon  ?  You  express  a  pious  hope  further  developments 
never  will  declare  themselves  ?  Possibly  that  might  save 
trouble;  but  I  fear  the  saving  of  trouble  is  hardly  the 
main  point  in  the  present  case.  Therefore,  until  they 
do  declare  themselves,  you  will,  I  feel  sure,  r.gree  that  it 
is  most  undesirable  this  subject  should  be  spoken  about. 
Discussion  of  it  can  only  cause  my  cousins  agitation  and 
heighten   their   suspense.     This   I   am  naturally  most 

257 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

anxious  they  should  be  spared.  Nothing,  meanwhile, 
will  be  neglected.  I  shall  do  my  part.  Mr.  Merriman 
will  do  his.  I  will  ask  you  therefore  to  consider  this 
conversation  as  strictly  confidential." 

"Oh!  you  needn't  be  afraid  I  shall  blab,"  Challoner 
said.  "Poor  girl,"  he  went  on  presently,  pronouncing 
that  dangerous  catch-word  as  though  it  rhymed  with 
curl — "poor  girl,  poor  Miss  Margaret!  It  '11  be  an 
awful  blow  to  her.  She  is  so  sensitive.  She's  given  me 
to  understand — indirectly,  of  course — when  we've  been 
talking  over  business,  what  an  out-and-out  rotter  this 
precious  brother  of  hers  was.  To  my  mind,  you  know, 
Mr.  Savage,  it's  not  a  nice  thing  to  turn  such  vermin  as 
young  Smyrthwaite  loose  on  two  defenseless  women. 
I  don't  like  it.  Honestly  I  don't.  So  you  needn't  be 
afraid  of  my  blabbing.  My  whole  object,  out  of  re- 
spect for  the  ladies  and  for  poor  old  Smyrthwaite's 
memory,  will  be  to  keep  matters  dark.  At  the  same 
time  I  note  what  you  say  about  Merriman;  which,  I 
take  it,  is  equivalent  to  telling  me  to  keep  my  hands  off. 
Very  good,  Mr.  Savage.  What  I  have  just  said  proves  I 
think  that  I  am  more  than  willing  to  keep  my  hands 
very  much  off  this  very  dirty  job.  Still,  there  is  one 
question  which,  even  so,  I  imagine  I  am  at  liberty  to 
ask.     Are  you  sure  of  your  facts?" 

To  Adrian  Savage  it  appeared  only  two  alternatives 
were  open  to  him — namely,  to  treat  his  host  with  studied 
politeness  or  call  him  out.  And  England,  perhaps 
unfortunately,  is  no  longer  a  dueling  country.  Adrian's 
manner  became  elaborately  sweet. 

"As  far  as  they  go,"  he  said,  "I  am,  dear  Mr.  Chal- 
loner, absolutely  sure  of  my  facts." 

"As  far  as  they  go?  Well,  there's  room  for  hope  they 
mayn't  go  very  far,  then — may  be  something  of  the 
nature  of  a  scare,  in  short.  And,  if  I  may  be  allowed  one 
question  more,  has  this  very  edifying  piece  of  family 
news  been  communicated  to  Margaret?" 

258 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"To — to  whom?"  Adrian  said,  with  a  civil  interroga- 
tory face,  raised  eyebrows,  and  a  slightly  elongated  neck. 

"Sorry  I  didn't  speak  plainly  enough,"  Challoner 
snarled  back.  "Communicated  to  your  cousin,  Mr. 
Savage,  Miss  Margaret  Smyrthwaite  ?" 

"Not  by  me,"  the  other  returned,  smiling  affably. 
"And  now,  my  dear  Mr.  Challoner,"  he  went  on,  "since 
these  labors  in  which  we  have  been  associated  are  at  an 
end,  let  me  thank  you  warmly  for  your  able  concurrence 
and  for  the  priceless  assistance  you  have  given  me  in  the 
administration  of  Mr.  Smyrthwaite's  estate.  Accept, 
also,  my  thanks  for  your  courtesy  in  permitting  me  to 
come  here  to  your  charming  house  to-night." 

Adrian  glanced  around  the  forbidding  apartment. 

"I  carry  away  with  me  so  many  interesting  and  in- 
structive impressions,"  he  said.  "  But  now  I  really  must 
trespass  upon  your  time  and  indulgence  no  longer.  Again 
thanks — and,  since  I  leave  at  a  comparatively  early  hour 
to-morrow,  good-by,  Mr.  Challoner — good-by,  good- 
night." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
"nuit  de  mai" 

SOME  half -hour  later  Adrian  turned  into  the  gar- 
den of  the  Tower  House  by  the  wicket  gate 
opening  off  the  carriage-drive.  And  so  doing,  the  tran- 
quil beauty  of  the  night  made  itself  felt.  During  his 
walk  from  Heatherleigh  his  preoccupation  had  been  too 
great  to  admit  of  the  bestowal  of  intelligent  attention 
upon  outward  things,  however  poetic  their  aspect.  He 
possessed  the  comfortable  assurance,  it  is  true,  of  having 
worsted  the  animal  Challoner  in  the  only  way  possible, 
swords  and  pistols  being  forbidden.  He  also  possessed 
the  comfortable  assurance  of  having  scrupulously  and 
successfully  regulated  the  affaire  Smyrthwaite,  in  as  far 
as  business  was  concerned,  and  taken  his  discharge  in 
respect  of  it.  But  the  events  of  the  afternoon  had 
proved  to  him,  beyond  all  shadow  of  doubt  and  denial, 
the  existence  of  a  second  affaire  Smyrthwaite,  compared 
with  which  regulation  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
pounds  worth  of  property  was,  from  his  personal  stand- 
point, but  the  veriest  bagatelle!  Now  the  question  of 
how  to  deal  with  this  second  affaire,  alike  scrupulously 
and  successfully,  racked  his  brain,  usually  so  direct 
in  decision,  so  prompt  in  honorable  instinct  and  thought. 
And  it  was  to  the  young  man's  credit  that,  while  fully 
measuring  the  abominable  nature  of  the  hole  in  which 
the  unhappy  Joanna  had  put  him,  he  remained  just  and 
temperate  in  his  judgment  of  Joanna  herself.  The  more 
to  his  credit,  because,  as  a  native  of  a  country  where 
certain  subjects  are  treated  in  a  spirit  of  merry  common- 

260 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

sense — which,  if  it  makes  in  some  degree  for  license,  also 
makes  for  absence  of  hypocrisy  and  much  wholesome 
delight  in  life — Joanna's  attitude  offered  an  obscure 
problem.  Were  she  a  vicious  woman  his  position  would 
be  a  comparatively  simple  one.  But  Joanna  and  vice 
were,  he  felt,  far  as  the  poles  asunder.  Even  that  ugly 
matter  of  "trying  to  buy  him"— as  in  his  first  over- 
whelming disgust  he  had  defined  it — proved,  on  calmer 
inspection,  innocent  of  any  intention  of  offense.  She 
didn't  know,  poor, dear  woman,  she  didn't  know.  In  her 
virtuous  ignorance  of  certain  fundamental  tendencies  of 
human  nature,  of  the  correlative  action  of  body  and 
spirit,  she  had  not  a  conception  of  the  atrocities  she 
was  in  process  of  committing!  For  she  was  essentially 
high-minded, deep-hearted,  sincere;  a  positive  slave  to  the 
demands  of  her  own  overdeveloped  moral  sense.  But, 
heavens  and  earth,  if  only  those  responsible  for  her 
education  had  taught  her  a  little  more  about  the  nature 
of  the  genus  homo — male  and  female — and  the  physi- 
ology of  her  own  emotions,  and  a  little  less  about  quite 
supererogatory  theoretic  ethics!  The  burning,  though 
veiled,  passion  from  which  he  recoiled  was,  he  believed, 
in  great  measure  the  result  of  the  narrow  intellectualism 
on  which  she  had  been  nurtured  working  upon  a 
naturally  ardent  temperament.  What  she  must  have 
suffered !     What  she  would  suffer  in  the  coming  days ! 

For  it  was  that  last  which  hit  Adrian  hardest,  in  all 
this  distracting  imbroglio,  giving  him  that  "uncommon 
nasty  blow  below  the  belt"  the  effects  of  which  Joseph 
Challoner  had  noted.  The  more  he  analyzed,  and, 
analyzing,  excused,  Joanna's  attitude  the  more  odiously 
distasteful  did  his  own  position  become.  In  how  far 
was  he  to  blame  ?  What  had  he  done,  by  word,  act,  or 
look,  to  provoke  or  to  foster  Joanna's  most  lamentable  in- 
fatuation ?  He  explored  his  memory,  and,  to  his  rather 
bitter  amusement,  found  it  an  absolute  blank.  He  had 
not  flirted  with  her,  even  within  the  most  restrained  of 

261 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

the  limits  sanctioned  by  ordinary  social  intercourse. 
For  this  he  did  not  commend  himself.  On  the  contrary, 
he  felt  almost  penitent;  since — there  hadn't  been  any 
temptation  to  flirt.  Positively  not  any — though  Adrian 
knew  himself  to  be  by  no  means  insensible  to  feminine 
influence.  He  loved  Madame  St.  Leger.  She  con- 
stituted, so  to  speak,  the  religion  of  his  heart.  But  he 
found  dozens  of  other  women  charming,  and  did  not 
scruple  to — as  good  as — tell  them  so. — Why  not?  Are 
not  such  tellings  the  delightful  and  perfectly  legitimate 
small  change  of  a  gallant  man's  affections?  And  out  of 
the  farthings  and  half-farthings,  the  very  fractions  of 
half-farthings,  indeed — of  such  small  change,  Joanna 
had  constructed  a  great  and  serious  romance  terminating 
in  matrimony!  The  young  man  could  have  beat  his 
breast,  torn  his  hair,  poured  ashes  upon  his  thus  forcibly 
denuded  scalp,  and  rent  his  up-to-date  and  particularly 
well-tailored  garments.  He,  Adrian  Savage,  the  hus- 
band of  Joanna ! — From  this  his  lively  Gallic  imagination 
galloped  away,  blushing  in  humorous  horror,  utterly 
refusing  to  contemplate  the  picture.  At  the  same  time 
his  pity  for  her  was  immense.  And  how,  oh !  how,  with- 
out gross  and  really  sickening  cruelty,  to  dispel  her  dis- 
astrous delusion  ? 

With  the  above  question  upon  his  lips,  Adrian  turned 
by  the  wicket  gate  into  the  garden,  where  the  tranquil 
beauty  surrounding  him  compelled  his  observation. 

High  above  the  dark-feathered  crests  of  the  firs,  the 
moon,  two  days  short  of  the  full,  rode  in  the  south- 
eastern sky,  obliterating  all  stars  in  the  vicinity  of  her 
pathway.  She  showed  to-night  not  as  a  flat  disk  plas- 
tered against  the  solid  vault,  but  as  a  mammoth,  deli- 
cately tarnished  silver  ball,  traveling  in  stateliest  fashion 
the  steel-blue  fields  of  space.  The  roofs  and  facade  of 
the  house,  its  multiplicity  of  glinting  window-panes, 
the  lawns  and  shrubberies,  and  all-encircling  woodland, 
were  alike  overlaid  with  the  searching  whiteness  of  her 

262 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

light.  The  air  was  dry  and  very  mellow,  rich  with  a 
blending  of  forest  and  garden  scents.  Faintly  to  north- 
ward Adrian's  ear  could  detect  the  rattle  and  grind  of  a 
belated  tram  on  the  Barryport  Road,  and,  southward, 
the  continuous  wistful  murmur  of  the  mile-distant  sea! 

Now,  as  often  before,  he  was  sensible  of  the  subtle 
charm  produced  by  this  conjunction  of  a  highly  finished, 
material  civilization  with  gently  savage  and  unsub- 
jugated  Nature.  England  is,  in  so  great  measure,  a 
sylvan  country  even  yet;  a  country  of  close-coming, 
abounding,  and  invading  trees.  And  when,  as  now,  just 
upon  midnight,  its  transitory  human  populations — which 
in  silly  pride  suppose  themselves  proprietors  of  the  soil 
and  all  that  grows  upon  it — are  herded  safe  indoors,  abed 
and  asleep,  the  trees  resume  their  primitive  sovereignty, 
making  their  presence  proudly  evident.  They  had  no 
voice  to-night,  it  is  true.  They  stood  becalmed  and 
silent.  Yet  the  genius  of  them,  both  in  their  woodland 
unity  and  endless  individual  diversity  of  form  and 
growth,  declared  itself  nevertheless.  For  this  last  the 
infiltration  of  moonlight  was  partly  accountable,  since  it 
lent  each  stem,  branch,  and  twig,  each  differing  species  of 
foliage — the  large  leaves  of  laurel  and  rhododendron,  the 
semi-transparent,  fringed  and  fluted  leaves  of  the  beech, 
the  finely  spiked  tufts  of  fir-needles — a  definiteness  and 
separateness  such  as  hoar-frost  might.  Each  tree  and 
bush  stood  apart  from  its  fellows  in  charming  complete- 
ness and  relief,  challenging  the  eye  by  a  certain  sprightly 
independence  of  mien  and  aspect.  Had  they  moved 
from  their  fixed  places,  the  big  trees  mingling  in  some 
stately  procession  or  dance,  while  the  shrubs  and  bushes 
frisked  upon  the  greensward,  Adrian  would  hardly  have 
been  surprised.  A  spirit  of  phantasy  was  abroad — here 
in  the  Baughurst  Park  Ward,  local  municipal  government 
notwithstanding — entrancing  to  his  poetic  sense. 

Therefore  he  lingered,  walking  slowly  along  the  path 
leading  to  the  garden  entrance  of  the  house,  here  shaded 

263 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

by  a  broken  line  of  tall  Scotch  firs,  their  smooth  stems 
rising  like  pillars,  bare  of  branches  for  some  twenty  or 
thirty  feet.  Now  and  again  he  stopped,  held  captive  by 
the  tranquil  yet  disquieting  beauty  of  the  scene.  It  re- 
minded him  strangely  of  Gabrielle  St.  Leger's  beauty,  and 
the  something  elusive,  delicately  malicious  and  ironic, 
in  the  character  of  it.  Her  smiling,  unclosed  lips,  the 
dimple  in  her  left  cheek;  those  mysterious  oblique 
glances  from  beneath  her  long-shaped,  half-closed  eye- 
lids, full  at  once  of  invitation  and  reserve;  the  untamed, 
deliciously  tricksy  spirit  he  apprehended  in  her;  and  a 
something  majestic,  too,  as  of  those  vast,  calm,  steel-blue 
fields  of  space, — these,  all  and  severally,  he,  lover-like, 
found  mirrored  in  the  loveliness  of  this  May  night. 

On  his  left  the  lawns,  flooded  by  moonlight,  stretched 
away  to  the  tennis  court  and  the  terrace  walk  in  front  of 
the  pavilion.  On  his  right,  backed  by  the  line  of  Scotch 
firs  aforesaid,  a  thick  wall  of  deciduous  shrubs — allspice, 
lilac,  syringa,  hydrangea,  sweetbrier,  and  laburnum — 
shut  out  the  carriage-drive.  The  quaint  leathery  flowers 
of  the  allspice  gave  off  a  powerful  and  lucious  sweetness 
as  of  sun-ripened  fruit.  Adrian  paused,  inhaling  it, 
gazing  meanwhile  in  fond  imagination  into  la  belle 
Gabrielle 's  golden-brown  eyes,  refreshingly  forgetful  of 
the  distracting  perplexities  of  the  affaire  Smyrthwaite 
No.  2. 

It  was  a  good  moment,  at  once  chaste  and  volup- 
tuous, wherein  the  very  finest  flame  of  ideal  love  burned 
upon  his  heart's  altar.  But  it  was  broken  up  by  an 
arresting  apparition.  For  a  white  owl  swept,  phantom- 
like, out  of  the  plantation  behind  the  pavilion  and  beat 
over  the  moonlit  turf  in  swift  and  absolutely  noiseless 
flight.  A  soft  thistle-down  could  hardly  have  passed 
more  lightly  or  silently  than  the  great  wide- winged  bird. 
Beneath  it,  its  shadow,  skimming  the  close-cut  surface 
of  the  grass,  seemed  as  much  alive  and  more  substantial 
than  itself.     Twice,  while  Adrian  watched,  moved  and  a 

264 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

little  startled,  it  quartered  the  lawn  in  search  of  prey; 
then  flung  itself  up,  high  in  air,  vanishing  among  the  tree- 
tops,  with  a  long-drawn  hoo-hoo-hooing  of  hollow  laugh- 
ter. And  in  the  space  of  a  few  seconds,  from  the  recesses 
of  the  woodland,  its  mate  answered  with  a  far-cflf  elfin 
echo  of  its  sinister  note.  Then  Adrian  heard  a  window 
open.  And,  on  to  the  far  end  of  the  red-balustraded 
balcony— extending  along  the  first  floor  of  the  house,  in 
the  recess  above  the  veranda — a  woman  came. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  white  neglige  of  some  soft,  woolen 
material,  which  hung  straight  in  knife-edge  pleatings  from 
her  shoulders  to  her  feet,  covering  them — as  the  young 
man  could  see  between  the  wide-spaced  balusters — and 
lying  outspread  for  some  inches  around  her  upon  the  floor. 
Over  this  she  wore  a  black  cloak,  straight-hanging  too, 
made  of  some  fine  and  supple  fur.  The  fronts  of  it,  which 
were  thrown  open,  leaving  her  arms  free,  appeared  to  be 
lined  with  ermine.  Her  peculiar  garb  and  the  percep- 
tible angularity  of  her  form  and  action  suggested  some 
crabbed  medieval  figure  of  church  wood-carving  or 
memorial  brass. 

The  woman  looked  so  tall  standing  there  as  in  a  mural 
pulpit,  high  against  the  house-front,  that  at  first  sight 
Adrian,  took  her  to  be  Marion  Chase.  But  medieval 
and  ecclesiastical  associations  were  a  little  too  glaringly 
out  of  place  in  connection  with  that  remarkably  healthy 
young  amazon  and  athlete.  Adrian  dismissed  them, 
with  a  sensible  sinking  of  the  heart.  Instinctively  he 
moved  aside,  seeking  the  deepest  of  the  shadows  cast  by 
the  fir-trees,  pressing  himself  back  among  the  bushes  of 
sweet-flowered  allspice.  Of  two  evils  one  must  choose 
the  least.  Concealment  was  repugnant  to  him;  but,  to 
go  forward  meant  to  be  recognized  and  compelled  to 
speak.  And,  to  play  the  part  of  hero  in  some  grim 
travesty  of  the  Garden  Scene  from  "Romeo  and  Juliet," 
was  of  the  two  vastly  the  more  repugnant. 

Becoming  aware  of  a  movement  in  the  garden  below, 
265 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

the  woman  leaned  forward  and  gazed  fixedly  in  his 
direction,  showing  in  the  bleaching  moonlight  Joanna 
Smyrthwaite's  heavy;-  upturned  hair,  strained,  promi- 
nent eyes  and  almost  terrible  face,  so  ravaged  was  it 
by  emotion. 

The  night  traffics  in  exaggerations;  and  Adrian's 
senses  and  sensibilities  were  already  somewhat  over- 
stimulated.  Perhaps,  therefore,  it  followed  that,  looking 
up  at  Joanna,  she  appeared  to  him  clothed  in  hieratic 
garments  as  the  elect  exponent  and  high-priestess  of  all 
lovelorn,  unmated,  childless  womanhood  throughout  the 
world.  To  him,  just  then,  her  aspect  gathered  up  and 
embodied  the  fiercely  disguised  sufferings  of  all  the 
barren,  the  ugly,  the  ungifted,  the  undesired  and  un- 
sought; of  that  disfranchised  multitude  of  women  whose 
ears  have  never  listened  to  recitation  of  a  certain  Song  of 
Songs.  Her  youth — she  was  as  young  as  he — her  wealth, 
the  ease,  leisure,  solid  luxury  which  surrounded  her,  her 
possession  of  those  material  advantages  which  make  for 
gaiety  and  security,  for  pleasant  vanities,  for  participa- 
tion in  all  the  light-hearted  activities  of  modern  life, 
only  deepened  the  tragedy.  Denied  by  man  and — 
since  she  was  without  religion — denying  God,  she  did 
indeed  offer  a  piteous  spectacle.  The  more  so,  that  he 
apprehended  a  toughness  of  fiber  in  her,  arguing  a  power 
of  protracted  and  obstinate  resistance.  Happier  for  her, 
surely,  had  she  been  made  of  weaker  stuff,  like  her 
wretched  brother  of  the  vile  drawings  upon  Rene  Dax's 
studio  wall! 

Adrian's  own  personal  share  in  this  second  and  tragic 
affaire  Smyrthwaite  came  home  to  him  with  added 
poignancy  as  he  stood  thus,  in  hiding,  amid  the  luscious 
sweetness  of  the  flowering  allspice.  For  one  intolerable 
moment  he  questioned  whether  he  could,  whether  he 
should,  sacrifice  himself,  transmuting  Joanna's  besotted 
delusion  into  fact  and  truth.  But  reason,  honor,  love, 
the  demands  of  his  own  rich  vitality,  his  keen  value  of 

266 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

life  and  of  the  delights  of  living,  his  poetic  and  his 
artistic  sense,  the  splendid  call  of  all  the  coming  years, 
his  shrewdness,  his  caution,  his  English  humor  and  his 
Gallic  wit,  arose  in  hot  and  clamorous  rebellion,  shout- 
ing refusal  final  and  absolute.  He  couldn't  do  it. 
Death  itself  would  be  preferable.  It  came  very  simply 
to  this — he  could  not. 

Just  then  he  saw  Joanna  draw  her  costly  cloak  about 
her  neck  and  shoulders,  as  though  struck  by  sudden  and 
sharp  cold.  Again  the  sinister  note  of  the  owls  in 
greeting  and  in  answer  came  from  the  recesses  of  the 
great  woodland.  And  again  Joanna,  leaning  forward, 
scrutinized  the  shadows  of  the  garden  path  with  pale, 
strained  eyes.  Then  raising  both  hands  and  pressing 
them  against  her  forehead  as  though  in  physical  pain,  she 
turned  and  went  indoors, closing  the  window  behind  her. 

Both  pity  and  policy  kept  the  young  man  for  another, 
far  from  agreeable,  five  minutes  in  the  shelter  of  the 
allspice  bushes  before  venturing  into  the  open.  Upon 
the  veranda  he  waited  again,  conscious  of  intense 
reluctance  to  enter  the  house.  He  knew  his  decision 
to  be  sane  and  right,  the  only  one  possible,  in  respect 
of  Joanna;  yet  he  felt  like  a  criminal,  a  betrayer,  a 
profligate  trader  in  women's  affections.  He  called  him- 
self hard  names,  knowing  them  all  the  while  to  be  in- 
applicable and  unjust;  but  his  sympathies  were  excited, 
his  imagination  horror-struck  by  that  lately  witnessed 
vision  of  feminine  disfranchisement  and  distress. 

At  his  request  the  men-servants  had  left  the  door 
opening  from  the  veranda  unlocked.  Passing  along  the 
corridor  into  the  hall,  he  became  very  sensible  of  the 
silence  and  suspended  animation  of  the  sleeping  house. 
The  curtains  of  the  five-light,  twenty-foot  staircase 
window  were  drawn  back.  Through  the  leaded  panes 
of  thickened  clouded  glass  moonlight  filtered,  stamp- 
ing misty  diaper-work  upon  walls  and  floor,  paint- 
ing polished  edges  and  surfaces  of  woodwork  with  lines 

18  267 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

and  patches  of  shining  white.  On  a  small  table  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  decanters  and  glasses,  a  cut-glass  jug  of 
iced  water,  a  box  of  cigars,  silver  candlestick  and  match- 
box had  been  placed  against  his  return.  But  the  young 
man  was  in  no  humor  just  now  for  superfluous  drinks 
or  superfluous  lights.  He  felt  apprehensive,  childishly- 
distrustful  of  the  quiet  reigning  in  the  house,  as  though, 
behind  it,  some  evil  lay  in  wait  to  leap  upon  and  capture 
him  He  felt  nervous.  This  at  once  annoyed  him  and 
made  him  keenly  observant  and  alert.  He  stood  a 
moment  listening,  then  ran  up  the  wide,  shallow  tread 
of  the  stairs  lightly,  three  steps  at  a  time.  On  the  level 
of  the  half-flight,  under  the  great  window,  he  paused.  The 
air  was  hot  and  heavy.  His  heart  beat.  A  door  opened 
from  the  right  on  to  the  gallery  above.  Some  one 
came  forward,  with  a  soft  dragging  of  draperies  over  the 
thick  carpet,  through  the  dim  checkerings  of  the  moon- 
light. 

"Adrian,"  Joanna  called,  whisperingly,  "Adrian,  is 
that  you?" 

The  young  man  took  a  long  breath.  His  nerves  grew 
steady.  He  came  calmly  up  the  remaining  half-flight, 
his  head  carried  high,  his  face  serious,  his  eyes  a  little 
hard  and  very  bright.  Childish  fears,  exaggerations  of 
self-condemnation,  left  him  at  the  sound  of  Joanna's 
voice;  but  he  was  sorry,  very  sorry,  both  for  her  and — 
for  himself. 

"Yes,  Cousin  Joanna,"  he  answered,  and  his  speech,  to 
his  own  hearing,  had  a  somewhat  metallic  ring  in  it. 

If  there  must  be  an  interview  at  this  highly  indiscreet 
hour  of  the  night  it  should  at  least  be  open  and  above- 
board,  conducted  in  tones  which  the  entire  household 
could,  if  it  chose,  hear  plainly  enough.  Both  for  his  own 
honor  and  Joanna's  this  was  best. 

"I  have  just  come  back  from  Heatherleigh,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  You  will  be  glad  to  know  that  Mr.  Challoner 
and  I  have  finished  the  business  connected  with  your 

268 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

father's  property.  All  outstanding  accounts  and  all 
duties  upon  the  estate  are  now  paid.  All  documents 
are  signed,  receipted,  and  in  order." 

Joanna  made  an  impatient  gesture  as  though  thrust- 
ing aside  some  foolish  obstruction. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "no  doubt;  but  it  is  not  about  the 
property  I  need  to  speak  to  you,  Adrian.  My  mind  is 
quite  at  ease  about  that.  It  is  about  something  else.  It 
is  about  myself." 

"Ah,  yes?"  the  young  man  inquired,  gravely. 

"I  did  not  come  down  to  dinner  to-night.  I  felt  sure 
you  would  understand  and  excuse  me.  I  could  not.  I 
could  not  have  borne  to  be  with  Margaret  and  Marion 
Chase  and  to  listen  to  their  trivial  talk  in  your  presence, 
after  our  conversation  of  this  afternoon.  I  had  to  be 
alone  that  I  might  think,  that  I  might  bring  my  temper 
into  subjection  to  my  will.  Isherwood  told  me  you  had 
gone  out  after  dinner.  But  I  felt  I  could  not  rest  with- 
out seeing  you  again  to-night.  I  felt  I  must  speak  to 
you,  must  ask  your  forgiveness,  must  try  to  explain. 
So  I  waited  up.  The  owls  startled  me,  and  I  went  on  to 
the  balcony.  I  fancied  you  were  in  the  garden.  But  I 
could  not  see  you.  Later  I  heard  your  footsteps" — 
Joanna  paused  breathlessly — "your  footsteps,"  she  re- 
peated, "upon  the  pavement  of  the  veranda.  My 
courage  failed.  I  felt  ashamed  to  meet  you.  But  it 
would  be  so  very  dreadful  to  have  you  think  harshly  of 
me — so,  so  I  came." 

Owing  to  the  vague  quality  of  the  light  Adrian  failed 
to  see  her  face  distinctly, and  for  this  he  was  thankful. 
But  he  knew  that  her  arms  hung  straight  at  her  sides, 
and  that,  under  cover  of  her  costly  cloak,  her  poor 
hands  clutched  and  clutched  against  the  white  knife- 
pleatings  of  her  dress. 

"Dear  cousin,"  he  said,  "I  have  no  cause  to  think 
harshly  of  you.  Indeed,  my  thought  has  been  occupied 
with  sympathy  for  the  trials  that  you  have  already 

269 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

undergone,  and  with  regret  that  I  should  be  instru- 
mental in  recalling  distressing  events  to  your  mind." 

"Ah!  I  deserve  no  sympathy,"  she  declared,  vehe- 
mently, turning  aside  and  moving  restlessly  to  and  fro. 
"I  do  not  deserve  that  excuses  should  be  made  for  me. 
This  afternoon  I  showed  my  character  in  a  shocking 
light.  Perhaps  it  was  the  true  light.  Perhaps  my 
character  is  objectionable.  I  both  felt  and  said  what 
was  cruel  and  intemperate.  I  was  selfish.  I  only 
considered  my  own  happiness.  I  repudiated  my  duty 
toward  my  brother.  I  wished  him  dead,  because  his 
return,  and  all  the  anxiety  and  thought  the  probability 
of  that  return  necessarily  occasions,  interfered  with  my 
own  plans,  with  my  own  beautiful  prospects  and  hopes." 

She  came  close,  standing  before  the  young  man,  her 
hands  clasped,  her  body  visibly  shuddering  beneath  her 
hieratic  garments. 

"Now  I  have  come  to  myself,  Adrian.  I  realize — in- 
deed I  realize — the  enormity  of  my  own  callousness,  my 
own  selfishness.  I  realize,  too,  the  dreadful  impression 
of  my  nature  which  you  must  have  received.  If  you 
repudiated  me  I  should  have  no  valid  cause  for  complaint. 
My  reason  forces  me  to  acknowledge  that  I  deserve  your 
censure;  that  if  you  turn  from  me— dreadful,  dreadful  as 
it  would  be — I  shall  have  brought  that  misery  upon 
myself.  Dreadful,  dreadful,"  she  moaned,  "too  dreadful 
to  contemplate — yet  deserved,  invited  by  the  exhibition 
of  my  own  ungovernable  temper — deserved — there  is  the 
sting  of  it." 

"But — but,  my  dear  Joanna,"  Adrian  broke  forth, 
carried  out  of  himself  by  the  spectacle  of  her  grief,  "you 
are  fighting  with  shadows.  You  are  torturing  yourself 
with  non-existent  iniquities.  Calm  yourself,  dear  cousin. 
Look  at  things  quietly  and  in  a  reasonable  spirit.  Your 
brother  is,  unfortunately,  unsatisfactory  and  trouble- 
some, a  difficult  person  to  deal  with.  His  errors  of  con- 
duct have  caused  his  family  grave  inconvenience  and 

270 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

sorrow.  Let  us  be  honest.  Let  us  freely  admit  all 
that.  He  is  not  a  young  man  to  be  proud  of.  What 
more  natural  then  than  that  you  should  recoil  from  the 
idea  of  his  return  ?  That,  in  the  first  shock  of  the  idea 
being  presented  to  you,  you  should  strongly  express 
your  alarm,  your  distaste?  It  is  only  human.  Who 
but  a  hypocrite  or  pedant  would  condemn  you  for  that ! 
Calm  yourself,  dear  cousin.  Be  just  to  yourself.  I 
could  not  permit  you  to  revoke  your  gifts  to  your  brother. 
My  own  honor  was  a  little  involved  there  perhaps — " 

Adrian  smiled  at  her  reassuringly,  putting  some  force 
upon  himself. 

"Let  us  be  sensible,"  he  continued.  "Let  us  be 
moderate.  At  the  present  time  we  have  no  reliable  in- 
formation as  to  where  your  brother  is.  We  may  not  dis- 
cover him.  He  may  never  come  back.  Meanwhile,  I 
implore  you,  dismiss  this  painful  subject  from  your  mind. 
Be  merciful  to  your  own  nerves,  dear  Joanna.  Remem- 
ber Andrew  Merriman  and  I  engage  to  do  our  best,  to 
exercise  all  care,  all  delicacy,  in  the  prosecution  of  our 
inquiries.  When  necessary  we  will  consult  with  you" — 
he  spread  out  his  hands,  his  head  a  little  on  one  side, 
consolatory,  debonair,  charming. — "Ah!  dear  cousin, 
be  advised — do  not  agitate  yourself  further.  Leave  it  all 
at  that." 

Joanna  sighed  once  or  twice.  Put  up  her  hands, 
pressing  them  against  her  forehead.  Her  body  swayed 
slightly  as  she  stood.  Her  hands  dropped  at  her  side 
again.  She  looked  fixedly,  intently,  at  Adrian  Savage. 
Her  mouth  was  a  little  open.  The  ecstatic  expression, 
so  nearly  touching  upon  idiocy,  had  come  back. 

"Then  nothing  is  changed— nothing  is  altered  between 
us?"  she  whispered. 

The  young  man  took  her  hand,  and  bowing  low  oyer  it, 
kissed  it.  As  he  raised  himself  he  looked  her  full  in  the 
face. 

"  No,  nothing,  my  dear  cousin,"  he  said. 
271 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

There  were  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  his  voice  shook.  He 
was  filled  with  apology,  with  immeasurable  concern  and 
regret,  with  an  immeasurable  craving  for  her  forgiveness, 
in  that  he  spoke  actual  and  literal  truth.  For  nothing 
was  changed — no,  nothing. — He  never  had  loved,  he 
did  not  love,  he  never  could  love  Joanna  Smyrthwaite. 

He  stayed  for  no  further  word  or  look.  Practically  he 
ran  away.  But  there  is  just  one  thing,  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  from  which  a  brave  man  may  run  without  smallest 
accusation  of  cowardice — namely,  a  woman  who  loves 
him  and  whom  he  does  not  love!  Once  in  his  room 
Adrian  bolted  the  door  on  the  inside  as  well  as  locking  it, 
and  began  to  pack.  He  would  take  the  mid-day  rather 
than  the  night  cross-Channel  boat  to-morrow.  Then, 
with  relief,  he  remembered  that  it  was  already  to- 
morrow.    In  a  few  hours  the  servants  would  be  about. 

Twice  before  dawn  he  fancied  he  heard  footsteps  and 
a  soft  dragging  of  draperies  over  the  carpet  of  the  corri- 
dor. He  opened  the  windows  wide,  and  let  in  the  singing 
of  birds  greeting  the  morning  from  the  woodland.  For 
the  sound  of  those  footsteps  and  softly  dragging  draperies 
cut  him  to  the  heart  with  sorrow  for  womanhood  unful- 
filled— womanhood  denied  by  man,  and,  not  having 
religion,  denying  God. 


IV 

THE    FOLLY   OF   THE   WISE 


CHAPTER  I 

RE-ENTER    A    WAYFARING    GOSSIP 

THE  last  of  Miss  Beauchamp's  receptions  for  the 
season  drew  to  a  vivacious  close.  Sunday  would 
witness  the  running  of  the  Grand  Prix.  Then  the  world 
would  begin  to  scatter,  leaving  Paris  to  the  inquiring 
foreigner,  the  staggering  sunshine,  some  few  millions  of 
the  governing  classes — new  style — the  smells,  the  spar- 
rows, and  the  dust. 

As  a  woman  consciously  looking  threescore  and  ten 
in  the  face  Anastasia  felt  very  tired.  Her  throat  was 
husky  and  her  back  ached.  But,  as  a  hostess,  she  felt 
elate,  gratified,  even  touched.  For  everybody  had  come. 
Had  worn  their  smartest  new  summer  clothes.  Had 
been  animated,  complimentary,  appreciative.  Had 
drunk  China  tea  or  iced  coffee;  eaten  strawberries  and 
cream,  sweetmeats,  ices,  and  wonderful  little  cakes,  and 
declared  "Mademoiselle  Beauchamp's  ravishing  'five- 
o'clock'  "  to  be  entirely  different  from  and  superior  to 
any  other  "  five-o'clock"  of  the  whole  of  their  united  and 
separate  experience. 

Art  and  letters  were,  of  course,  fully  represented; 
but  politics  and  diplomacy  made  a  fair  show  as  well. 
Anastasia  greeted  three  members  of  the  Chamber,  two  of 
the  Senate,  a  Cabinet  Minister,  and  a  contingent  from  the 
personnel  of  both  the  English  and  the  Italian  embassies. 
The  coveted  red  ribbon  was  conspicuous  by  its  presence. 
And  all  these  delightful  people  had  the  good  sense  to 
arrive  in  relays;  so  that  the  rooms — the  furniture  of 
them  disposed  against  the  walls — had  never  throughout 

275 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

the  afternoon  been  too  crowded  for  circulation,  had 
never  been  too  hot. 

Delicious  Nanny  Legrenzi,  of  the  Opera  Comique, 
sang — and  looked — like  an  impudent  angel.  Ludovico 
Muller  played  like  a  whirl  wind,  a  zephyr,  a  lost  soul,  a 
quite  rampantly  saved  soul — what  you  will!  And 
every  one  talked.  Heavenly  powers,  how  they  had 
talked ! — their  voices  rising  from  a  gentle  adagio,  through 
a  tripping  capriccioso,  to  the  magnificently  sustained 
fortissimo  so  welcome,  so  indescribably  satisfying,  to  the 
ear  of  the  practised  hostess.  Yes,  all  had  gone  well, 
excellently  well,  and  now  they  were  in  act  of  departing. 

Anastasia,  weary,  but  genial  and  amused,  on  capital 
terms  with  her  fellow-creatures  and  with  herself,  stood 
in  the  embrasure  of  one  of  the  windows  in  the  second 
room  of  the  suite.  Behind  her  red  and  pink  rambler 
roses  and  ferns,  in  pots,  formed  a  living  screen  against 
the  glass,  pleasantly  tempering  the  light.  Ludovico 
Muller  had  just  made  his  bow  and  exit,  leaving  the 
music-room  empty;  while  in  the  first  and  largest  room 
Madame  St.  Leger,  who  helped  her  to  receive  to-day, 
bade  farewell  to  the  guests  as  they  passed  on  into  the 
cool,  lofty  hall. 

"I  have  entertained  him  the  best  I  know,  Miss  Beau- 
champ,"  Lewis  Byewater  said.  "But  he  did  not  appear 
keen  to  converse  on  general  topics.  Seemed  to  need  to 
specialize.  Wanted  to  have  me  tell  him  just  who  every 
one  present  was." 

"His  talent  always  lay  in  the  direction  of  biographical 
research — modern  biography,  well  understood.  And  so, 
like  a  dear,  kind  young  man,  you  told  him  who  everybody 
was?" 

"Within  the  limits  of  my  own  acquaintance,  I  did  so. 
But,  you  see,  in  this  crowd  quite  a  number  of  persons 
were  unknown  to  me,"  Byewater — a  clean,  fair,  in- 
genuous and  slightly  unfinished-looking  youth,  with  a 
candid,  shining  forehead,  carefully  tooled   and   gilded 

276 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

teeth,  a  meager  allowance  of  hair,  a  permanent  pince-nez, 
and  a  pronounced  transatlantic  accent  —  explained 
conscientiously.  "I  did  my  best,  and  when  I  got 
through  with  my  facts  I  started  out  to  invent.  I  be- 
lieve I  thickened  up  the  ranks  of  the  French  aristocracy 
to  a  perfectly  scandalous  extent.  But  the  Colonel  ap- 
peared thirsty  on  titles." 

"A  form  of  thirst  entirely  unknown  to  your  side  of  the 
Atlantic!"  Anastasia  retorted.  "Never  mind.  If  you 
have  done  violence  to  the  purity  of  your  republican 
principles  by  a  promiscuous  ennobling  of  my  guests  you 
have  sinned  in  the  cause  of  friendship,  my  dear  Bye- 
water,  and  I  am  infinitely  obliged  to  you.  But  where  is 
Colonel  Haig  now?" 

"In  the  outer  parlor,  I  believe,  watching  Madame  St. 
Leger  wish  the  rear-guard  good-day.  He  proposes  to 
remain  to  the  bitter  end  of  this  reception,  Miss  Beau- 
champ.  He  confided  as  much  to  me.  He  is  sensible  of 
having  the  time  of  his  life  re  Parisian  society  people,  so 
he  proposes  to  stick.  But  you  must  be  pretty  well 
through  with  any  wish  for  entertaining  by  this,"  the 
kindly  fellow  went  on — "so  you  just  tell  me  truly  if  you 
would  prefer  to  have  me  go  off  right  now,  or  have  me 
wait  awhile  till  the  Colonel  shows  signs  of  getting  more 
satiated  and  take  him  along  too  ?  I  intended  proposing 
to  dine  him  somewhere,  anyway,  to-night." 

"  You  are  the  very  nicest  of  all  nice  young  men,  and 
unquestionably  I  shall  meet  you  in  heaven,"  Anastasia 
asserted,  heartily.  "And  as  I  shall  arrive  there  so  long 
before  you,  you  may  count  on  my  saying  all  manner  of 
handsome  things  to  St.  Peter  about  you.  Oh  yes,  stay, 
my  dear  boy,  and  carry  the  title-thirsty  Colonel  away 
with  you.     By  all  manner  of  means,  stay." 

Byewater  flushed  up  to  the  top  of  his  shining  forehead. 
He  looked  at  her  shyly  out  of  his  clear,  guileless  eyes. 

"I  do  not  feel  to  worry  any  wearing  amount  over  the 
Apostle,  Miss  Beauchamp,"  he  said,  slowly.     "I  believe 

277 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

it  is  more  Mr.  Adrian  Savage  at  the  present  who  stands 
to  break  up  my  rest.  If  you  could  say  some  favorable 
things  about  me  to  him,  I  own  it  would  be  a  let  up.  He 
accepted  my  articles  upon  the  Eighteenth -Century 
Stage;  but  I  do  not  seem  any  forwarder  with  getting 
them  positively  published.  I  suppose  he  is  holding 
them  over  for  the  dead  season.  Well,  I  presume  there  is 
appropriateness  in  that;  for,  seeing  the  time  it  has  lain 
in  his  office,  the  manuscript  must  be  very  fairly  moth- 
eaten  by  this." 

"Oh,  trust" me!"  Anastasia  cried,  genially.  "I'll  jog 
his  memory  directly  I  see  him — which  I  shall  do  as  soon 
as  he  returns  from  England.  Never  fear,  I'll  hustle  him 
to  some  purpose  if  you'll  stay  now  and  deliver  me  from 
this  military  genealogical  incubus.  Look — how  precious 
a  contrast! — here  they  come." 

Madame  St.  Leger  entered  the  room,  talking,  smiling, 
while  Rentoul  Haig,  short,  but  valiantly  making  the 
most  of  his  inches,  his  chest  well  forward,  neat  as  a  new 
pin,  his  countenance  rosy,  furiously  pleased  and  furiously 
busy,  with  something  between  a  marching  and  a  dancing 
step,  paraded  proudly  beside  her. 

La  belle  Gabrielle  had  discarded  black  garments,  and 
blossomed  delicately  into  oyster-gray  chiffon  and  a  silk 
netted  tunic  to  match,  finished  with  self-colored  silk 
embroideries  and  deep,  sweeping  knotted  fringe.  The 
crown  of  her  wide-brimmed  gray  hat  was  massed  with 
soft,  drooping  ostrich  plumes  of  the  same  reposeful  tint, 
which  lifted  a  little,  waving  slightly  as  she  advanced. 
A  scarlet  tinge  showed  in  the  round  of  her  charming 
cheeks.  Mischief  looked  out  of  her  eyes  and  tipped  the 
corners  of  her  smiling  mouth.  She  was,  indeed,  much 
diverted  by  the  small  and  pompous  British  warrior 
strutting  at  her  side.  He  offered  example  of  a  type 
hitherto  unknown  to  her.  She  relished  him  greatly. 
She  also  relished  the  afternoon's  experiences.  They 
were  exhilarating.     She  felt  deliciously  mistress  of  her- 

278 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

self  and  deliriously  light-hearted.  It  is  comparatively 
easy  to  despise  the  world  when  you  are  out  of  it.  But 
now,  the  seclusion  of  her  mourning  being  over,  returning 
to  the  world,  she  could  not  but  admit  it  a  vastly  pleas- 
ant place.  This  afternoon  it  had  broadly  smiled  upon 
her;  and  she  found  herself  smiling  back  without  any 
mental  reservation  in  respect  of  ideas  and  causes.  At 
seven  and  twenty,  though  you  may  hesitate  to  circum- 
scribe your  personal  liberty  by  marriage  with  one  man, 
the  homage  of  many  men — if  respectfully  offered — is  by 
no  manner  of  means  a  thing  to  be  sneezed  at.  Gabrielle 
St.  Leger  did  not  sneeze  at  it.  On  the  contrary  she 
gathered  admiring  looks,  nicely  turned  compliments, 
emulous  attentions,  veiled  ardors  of  manner  and  of 
speech,  into  a  bouquet,  so  to  speak,  to  tuck  gaily  into 
her  waistband.  The  sense  of  her  own  beauty,  and  of  the 
power  conferred  by  that  beauty,  was  joyful  to  her. 
Under  the  stimulus  of  success  her  tongue  waxed  merry, 
so  that  she  came  off  with  flying  colors  from  more  than 
one  battle  of  wit.  And,  for  some  reason,  all  this  went  to 
make  her  think  with  unusual  kindliness  of  her  absent 
lover.  In  this  vivacious,  mundane  atmosphere,  Adrian 
Savage  would  be  so  eminently  at  home  and  in  place! 
His  presence,  moreover,  would  give  just  that  touch  of 
romance,  that  touch  of  sentiment,  to  the  sparkling  pres- 
ent which — and  there  Gabrielle  thought  it  safest  to 
stop. 

"Ah!  it  has  been  so  very,  very  agreeable,  your  party, 
most  dear  friend,"  she  said  in  her  pretty  careful  English, 
taking  her  hostess's  hand  in  both  hers.  "I  find  myself 
quite  sorrowful  that  it  should  be  at  an  end.  I  could  say 
'and  please  how  soon  may  we  begin  all  over  again'  like 
my  little  Bette  when  she  too  is  happy." 

"Dear  child,  dear  child,"  Anastasia  returned  affec- 
tionately, almost  wistfully,  for  nostalgia  of  youth  is 
great  in  those  who,  though  bravely  acquiescent,  are  no 
longer  young. 

279 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Gray  hair  happened  to  be  the  fashion  in  Paris  this 
season.  About  a  week  previously  Miss  Beauchamp  had 
mysteriously  closed  her  door  to  all  comers.  To-day  she 
emerged  gray-headed.  This  transformation  at  once 
perplexed  and  pleased  her  many  friends.  If  it  ad- 
mitted her  age,  and  by  lessening  the  eccentricity  of  her 
appearance  made  her  less  conspicuous,  it  gave  her  an 
added  dignity,  strangely  softening  and  refining  the 
expression  of  her  large-featured,  slightly  masculine  face. 
Just  now,  in  a  highly  ornate  black  lace  and  white  silk 
gown,  and  suite  of  ruby  ornaments  set  in  diamonds — 
whereby  hung  a  tale  not  unknown  to  a  certain  hid- 
den garden — Anastasia  Beauchamp,  in  the  younger 
woman's  opinion,  showed  not  only  as  an  impressive  but 
as  a  noble  figure. 

"Ah  yes,  and  you  should  know  Colonel  'Aig,"  the 
latter  continued,  the  aspirate  going  under  badly  in  her 
eagerness,  "since  you  have  not  for  so  long  a  time  seen 
her,  that  it  is  always  thus  with  Mademoiselle  Beauchamp 
at  her  parties.  She  produces  a  mutual  sympathy  be- 
tween her  guests  so  that,  while  in  her  presence,  they 
adore  one  another.  It  is  her  secret.  She  makes  all  of  us 
at  our  happiest,  at  our  best.  We  laugh,  but  we  are  also 
gentle-hearted.     We  desire  to  do  good." 

"That  is  so,"  Byewater  put  in  nasally.  "I  indorse 
your  sentiments,  Madame  St.  Leger.  When  I  came 
over  I  believed  I  should  find  I  had  left  the  finest  speci- 
mens of  modern  woman  behind  in  America.  But  I  was 
mistaken.     Miss  Beauchamp  is  positively  great." 

"And — and  me,  Mr.  Byewater?"  Gabrielle  asked  with 
a  naughty  mouth. 

"Oh!  well,  you — Madame  St.  Leger,"  the  poor  youth 
faltered,  turning  away  modestly,  his  countenance  flam- 
ing very  bright  red. 

"I  require  no  assurances  regarding  our  hostess's 
brilliant  social  gifts,"  Rentoul  Haig  declared,  mouthing 
his  words  so  as  to  make  himself  intelligible  to  this  foreign, 

280 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

or   semi-foreign,    audience.     "My  memory   carries   me 
back  to — " 

"The  year  one,  my  dear  Colonel,  the  year  one,"  Anas- 
tasia  interrupted— "the  old  days  at  Beauchamp  Sul- 
grave.  Great  changes  there,  alas,  since  my  poor 
brother's  death.  Between  Death  Duties  and  Land  Taxes, 
my  cousin  can't  afford  to  keep  the  place'up,  or  thinks  he 
can't,  which  amounts  to  much  the  same  thing.  He  is 
trying  to  sell  a  lot  of  the  farms  at  Beauchamp  St.  Anne's, 
I  hear." 

"England  is  being  ruined  by  those  iniquitous  Land 
Taxes,  I  give  you  my  word,  Miss  Beauchamp,  simply 
ruined.  Take  Beauchamp  Sulgrave,  for  instance.  Per- 
fect example  of  an  English  country-house,  amply  large 
enough  yet  not  too  large  for  comfort,  and  really  lovely 
grounds.  Just  the  type  of  place  that  always  has  ap- 
pealed to  me.  I  remember  every  stick  and  stone  of  it. 
I  give  you  my  word,  I  find  it  difficult  to  speak  with 
moderation  of  these  Radical  nobodies,  whose  thieving 
propensities  endanger  the  preservation  of  such  places  on 
the  old  hospitable  and  stately  basis.  I  remember  my 
regiment  was  in  camp  at  Beauchamp  St.  Anne's — I  am 
afraid  it  was  in  the  seventies — and  your  party  from 
Sulgrave  used  kindly  to  drive  over  to  tea,  regimental 
sports,  and  impromptu  gymkhanas.  Charming  summer! 
How  it  all  comes  back  to  me,  Miss  Beauchamp!" 

He  cleared  his  throat,  pursing  up  his  lips  and  nodding 
his  head  quite  sentimentally. 

"  Really,  I  cannot  say  what  a  resuscitation  of  pleasant 
memories  it  gave  me,  when  our  mutual  friend  Savage 
mentioned  your  name  one  day  at  my  cousin,  the 
Smyrthwaites'  house,  at  Stourmouth,  this  winter.  Di- 
rectly my  doctor  ordered  me  to  Aix-les-Bains. — A  touch 
of  gout,  nothing  more  serious.  My  health  is,  and  always 
has  been,  excellent,  I  am  thankful  to  say. — I  determined 
to  remain  a  few  days  in  Paris  on  my  way  out,  in  the 
hope  of  renewing  our  acquaintance.     Savage  told  me — " 

281 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Gabrielle  had  dropped  her  friend's  hand. 

"Ah!  these  climbing  roses,  are  they  not  ravishing?" 
she  exclaimed,  advancing  her  nose  to  the  pink  clusters 
daintily.  "See  then,  M.  Byewater,  if  you  please,  can 
you  tell  me  the  name  of  them  ?  I  think  I  will  buy  some 
to  decorate  my  own  drawing-room.  The  colors  would 
sympathize — 'armonize — is  it  that,  yes? — so  prettily 
with  my  carpet. — You  recall  the  tone  of  my  carpet  ? — 
And  of  my  curtains.  Though  whether  it  is  worth  while, 
since  I  so  soon  leave  Paris!" 

"Is  that  so,  Madame  St.  Leger?"  Byewater  asked 
rather  blankly. 

"Savage  is  a  delightful  fellow,  a  really  delightful 
fellow,"  Rentoul  Haig  asserted  largely. 

"For  the  summer,  oh  yes,"  la  belle  Gabrielle  almost 
gabbled.  "  I  take  my  mother  and  my  little  girl  to  the — 
how  do  you  say  ? — to  the  sea-bathings.  On  the  Norman 
coast  I  have  rented  a  chalet.  The  climate  is  invigorating. 
It  will  benefit  my  mother,  whose  health  causes  me  anx- 
ieties. And  my  little  girl  will  enjoy  the  society  of 
some  little  friends,  whose  parents  rent  for  this  season  a 
neighboring  villa." 

"Ah!  precisely  that  is  what  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about.     Come  and  sit  down,  Colonel  Haig." 

Anastasia  raised  her  voice  slightly. 

"Here — yes — on  the  settee.  And  now  about  Adrian 
Savage.  I  confess  I  begin  to  look  upon  this  executor- 
ship as  an  imposition.  It  is  not  quite  fair  on  him,  poor 
dear  fellow.  It  occupies  time  and  thought  which  would 
be  expended  much  more  profitably  elsewhere.  He  is  as 
good  as  gold  about  it  all,  but  I  know  he  feels  it  a  most 
inconvenient  tie.  It  interferes  with  his  literary  work, 
which  is  serious,  and  with  his  social  life  here — with  his 
friendships." 

"Yes,  I  do  not  usually  go  to  the  coast.  I  accompany 
my  mother  to  her  native  province — to  Savoy" — Madame 
St.  Leger's  voice  had  also  risen.     "To  ChambeYy,  where 

282 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

we  have  relations.  You  are  not  acquainted  with  Cham- 
bdry,  M.  Byewater?  Ah!  but  you  make  a  mistake. 
You  should  be.  It  is  quite  the  old  France,  very  original, 
quite  of  the  past  ages.     I  love  it ;  but  this  year —  " 

"In  my  opinion  it  is  quite  time  Savage  was  set  free." 
Anastasia's  tone  waxed  increasingly  emphatic.  "You 
must  forgive  my  saying  the  Smyrthwaite  ladies  are  very 
exacting,  Colonel  Haig.  They  appear  to  trade  upon 
his  chivalry  and  forbearance  to  a  remarkable  extent. 
Doesn't  it  occur  to  them  that  a  young  man,  in  his  posi- 
tion, has  affairs  of  his  own  in  plenty  to  attend  to?" 

"This  year  the  sea-bathing  will  certainly  be  more 
efficacious.  No  doubt  the  mountain  air  in  Savoy  is 
also  invigorating;  but  the  changes  of  climate  are  so 
rapid,  so  injurious — " 

"Perhaps  there  are  other  attractions,  of  a  not  strictly 
business  character.  One  cannot  help  hearing  rumors, 
you  know.  And  recently  I  have  been  a  good  deal  at  the 
Miss  Smyrthwaites'  myself.  As  a  connection  of  their 
mother's,  in  their  rather  unprotected  condition,  I  have 
felt  it  incumbent  upon  me  to  keep  my  eye  on  mat- 
ters." 

Rentoul  Haig  settled  himself  comfortably  upon  the 
settee  beside  his  hostess,  inclining  sideways,  a  little  to- 
ward her.  He  spoke  low,  confidentially,  as  one  communi- 
cating state  secrets,  his  nose  inquisitive,  his  mouth 
puckered,  his  whole  dapper  person  irradiated  by  a  posi- 
tive rapture  of  gossip.  He  simmered,  he  bubbled,  he 
only  just  managed  not  to  boil  over,  in  his  luxury  of 
enjoyment.  Anastasia  listened,  now  fanning  herself, 
now  punctuating  his  discourse  with  incredulous  ejacula- 
tions and  gestures  descriptive  of  the  liveliest  dissent. 

"  Incredible !  my  dear  Colonel,"  she  cried.  "  You  must 
be  misinformed.  Savage  is  regarded  as  a  most  desirable 
parti  here  in  Paris.  He  can  marry  whom  he  pleases. 
Impossible!     I  know  better." 

"Then  do  you  tell  me  it  is  unhappily  quite  true  that 
19  283 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

M.  Rene*  Dax  is  ill,  M.  Byewater?"  Gabrielle  St.  Leger 
inquired  in  unnecessarily  loud,  clear  accents. 

"Well,  I  would  hesitate  to  make  you  feel  too  badly 
about  him,  Madame  St.  Leger,"  the  conscientious  youth 
returned  cautiously.  "I  cannot  speak  from  first-hand 
knowledge,  since  I  would  not  presume  to  give  myself 
out  as  among  M.  Dax's  intimates.  He  has  been  a  made 
man  this  long  time,  while  I  am  only  now  starting  out  on 
schemes  for  arriving  at  fame  myself  way  off  in  the  far 
by  and  by." 

"Never  in  life!"  Anastasia  cried,  in  response  to 
further  confidential  bubblings.  "You  misread  our 
friend  Savage  altogether  if  you  suppose  his  heart  could 
be  influenced  by  the  lady's  wealth.  He  is  the  least 
mercenary  person  I  know.  The  modern  fortune-hunting 
madness  has  not  touched  him,  I  am  delighted  to  say. 
Then,  he  is  really  quite  comfortably  off  already.  He  has 
every  reasonable  prospect  of  being  rich  eventually.  He 
is  very  shrewd  in  money  matters;  and  he  has  friends 
whom,  I  can  undertake  to  say,  will  not  forget  him  when 
the  final  disposition  of  their  worldly  goods  is  in  question. 
He  is  a  man  of  sensibility,  of  deep  feeling,  capable  of  a 
profound  and  lasting  attachment." 

She  paused,  glancing  at  la  belle  Gabrielle. 

"I  would  not  like  to  have  you  think  I  underrate  Mr. 
Dax's  talent."  This  from  Byewater.  "I  recognize  he  is 
just  as  clever  as  anything.  But  I  am  from  a  country 
where  the  standards  are  different,  and  much  of  Mr. 
Dax's  art  is  way  over  the  curve  of  the  world  where  my 
sympathy  fails  to  follow.  This  being  so,  I  have  never 
made  any  special  effort  to  get  into  direct  personal  con- 
tact—" 

"You  may  take  it  from  me,  my  dear  Colonel,  that 
profound  and  lasting  attachment  is  already  in  existence." 

"But  I  was  lunching  with  Lenty  B.  Stacpole,  our 
leading  black-and-white  artist,  yesterday.  Maybe  you 
are  not  acquainted  with  his  work,  Madame  St.  Leger? 

284 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Most  of  the  time  he  puts  it  right  on  the  American  market, 
and  does  not  show  here.  And,  Lenty  told  me  Mr.  Dax 
is  so  badly  broken  up  with  neurasthenia  that  if  he  does 
not  quit  work  and  exercise  more,  and  cultivate  normal 
habits  generally,  he  risks  soon  being  just  as  sick  a  man  as 
any  but  a  coroner's  jury  can  have  use  for." 

"It  is  a  matter  of  fact,  I  may  almost  say  of  com- 
mon knowledge" — fatigue  and  huskiness  notwithstand- 
ing, Anastasia's  voice  rang  out  in  a  veritable  war-cry. 
"All  his  friends  are  aware  that  for  years  he  has  been 
devoted — honorably  and  honestly  devoted — to  a  most 
lovely  woman,  here,  in  Paris." 

She  paused,  again  looking  the  bubbling  little  warrior 
hard  in  the  eye. 

"Here,"  she  repeated. 

"  But  that  pains  me  so  much" — Gabrielle  also  spoke  for 
the  benefit  of  all  and  any  hearers.  "Without  doubt  I 
did  know  that  M.  Rene"  Dax  was  ailing;  but  that  he  was 
so  very  ill — no — no." 

Miss  Beauchamp  laid  her  fan  lightly  upon  Colonel 
Haig's  coat-cuff,  silently  drawing  his  attention  to  the 
somewhat  unfinished  American  youth  and  the  perfectly 
finished  young  Frenchwoman,  standing  together  in  the 
embrasure  of  the  window  backed  by  the  trellis  of  red 
and  pink  rambler  roses.  Again  she  looked  him  hard  in 
the  eye. 

"  Now  does  it  occur  to  you  why  any  other  affair  of  the 
heart,  in  Mr.  Savage's  case,  is  preposterous  and  unthink- 
able?" she  inquired.  He  swallowed,  nodded:  "Upon 
my  word — indeed!     Most  interesting." 

"And  most  convincing?" 

"  My  dear  lady,  is  it  necessary  to  ask  that  question,  in 
face  of  such  remarkable  charm  and  beauty  ?  Enviable 
fellow !     Upon  my  word,  is  it  convincing  ?" 

But  here  la  belle  Gabrielle,  conscious  alike  of  their 
scrutiny  and  the  purport  of  their  partly  heard  conver- 
sation, advanced  from  the  window.    The  ostrich  plumes 

285 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

upon  her  hat  lifted  and  waved  as  she  moved.  The 
scarlet  tinge  in  her  cheeks  had  deepened,  and  her  eyes 
were  at  once  troubled  and  daring. 

Rentoul  Haig  got  upon  his  feet  in  a  twinkling. 

"Enviable  fellow!"  he  repeated  feelingly.  Then 
added,  "  I — I  am  at  liberty  to  mention  this  very  inter- 
esting piece  of  information,  Miss  Beauchamp  ?" 

"  Cry  it  aloud  from  the  housetops  if  you  will.  I  vouch 
for  the  truth  of  it,"  Anastasia  replied,  rising  also.  "All 
her  friends  wish  him  success.  I  say  advisedly  friends. 
In  such  a  case,  as  you  can  readily  imagine,  there  are 
others" — she  turned  to  Madame  St.  Leger.  "Why,  ma 
toute  belle,  is  anything  wrong  ?  You  appear  a  little  dis- 
turbed, disquieted." 

"  M.  Byewater  has  just  communicated  a  very  unhappy 
news  to  me,"  she  replied. 

"Heartless  young  man!  As  punishment  let  us  send 
him  packing  instantly." 

Anastasia  smiled  at  the  perplexed  youth  in  the  kindest 
and  most  encouraging  fashion. 

"I  am  ever  so  mortified  to  have  caused  Madame  St. 
Leger  to  feel  badly,"  he  said. 

"Oh!  She  will  get  over  it.  In  time  she  will  forgive 
you.  Leave  her  to  me!  I  will  reason  with  her.  You 
must  be  going,  too,  Colonel  Haig?"  Anastasia  held  out 
her  hand,  cheerfully  enforcing  farewell.  "Ah!  well,  it 
has  been  very  nice,  very  nice  indeed,  to  see  you  and  talk 
over  old  times  and  so  on.  Don't  fail  to  look  me  up 
whenever  you  pass  through  Paris.  I  give  you  a  standing 
invitation.  You're  sure  to  find  me.  I  am  as  much  a 
fixture  as  the  Bois  or  the  river." 

As  the  two  men  passed  from  the  outer  room  into  the 
hall  Anastasia  sank  down  on  the  settee  again. 

"Just  Heaven!"  she  said,  "but  I  expire  with  fatigue, 
simply  expire." 

Gabrielle  looked  at  her  mutinously.  Then,  sitting 
down  beside  her,  she  kissed  her  lightly  on  the  cheek. 

286 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"You  are  malicious,"  she  said;  "you  are  very  obsti- 
nate. Perhaps  I  too  am  obstinate.  You  will  not  succeed 
in  driving  me  into — into  marriage." 

"  Never  a  bit !  I  trust  your  own  heart,  dearest  child, 
to  do  the  driving." 

"Ah!  my  heart— have  I  any  left?     Save  where  my 

mother  and  Bette  are  concerned,  I  sometimes  wonder!" 

"You  don't  give  your  heart  the  chance  to  speak. 

You  are  afraid  of  it,  because  you  know  beforehand  what 

it  would  say,  what  it  is  already  saying." 

Madame  St.  Leger  rose,  shaking  her  head,  big  hat, 
waving  plumes  and  all,  with  captivating  petulance. 

"  How  can  I  tell,  how  can  I  tell  ?"  she  exclaimed.  "  Is 
not  marriage  for  me  ancient  history?  Did  I  not  read  it 
all  years  ago,  when  I  was  still  but  an  infant  ?" 

"That  is  exactly  the  reason  why  you  should  read  it 
again,  now  that  you  are  no  longer  an  infant — con- 
ceivably." 

"  But  I  do  not  care  to  read  again  that  which  I  have 
already  read.  I  have  learned  all  the  lessons  that  particu- 
lar ancient  history  has  to  teach."  Her  tone  and  ex- 
pression were  not  without  a  point  of  bitterness.  "I 
want  to  go  forward,  to  learn  a  new  science,  rather  than  to 
repeat  discredited  fables." 

Anastasia  sighed,  raising  her  shoulders,  smiling  keenly 
and  sadly. 

"Ah!  you  are  still  a  baby,"  she  said;  "very  much  a 
baby,  stretching  out  soft,  eager  fingers  toward  any  and 
every  untried  thing  which  sparkles,  or  jiggets,  or  rattles. 
Poor  enough  stuff,  my  dear,  for  the  most  part,  when  you 
do  contrive  to  grasp  it!  Not  new  at  all,  either,  save  for 
the  high-sounding  modern  names  with  which  it  is  labeled 
— only  old  clothes  made  over  to  ape  new  fashions!  Be- 
lieve me,  the  love  of  a  clever  and  handsome  young  man  is 
a  thousand  times  more  satisfying,  more  entertaining, 
than  any  such  sartorial  reconstructions  from  the  world- 
old    rag-bag   of   social    experiment.     Ah!  vastly   more 

287 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

entertaining,"  she  added,  placing  her  fan  against  her 
lips,  and  looking  at  the  younger  woman  over  the  top  of  it 
with  meaning. 

"M.  Byewater  informs  me  that  M.  Rene"  Dax  is  really, 
really  ill,"  Gabrielle  remarked  rather  hastily,  her  eyes 
turned  upon  the  roses. 

"Umph — and  pray  what,  my  dear,  has  that  precious 
piece  of  information  to  do  with  it?" 

"He  may  perhaps  even  die." 

"I,  for  one,  should  survive  his  loss  with  conspicuous 
resignation  and  fortitude." 

"But  for  the  past  week  he  has  written  to  me  almost 
daily." 

"An  impertinence  which  makes  me  the  more  resigned 
to  his  speedy  demise." 

"  Yes — piteous,  eloquent  little  letters,  telling  me  how 
he  suffers.     And  I  have  not  answered." 

"I  take  that  for  granted,  ma  toute  belle." 

"  I  did  not  reply  because — I  am  sorry  now — I  did  not 
quite  believe  him.  His  eloquence  was  affecting.  But 
it  was  also  misleading.  .  I  thought  it  improbable  any 
person  would  write  so  very  well  if  he  were  so  very  ill. 
I  lament  my  suspicions.  I  have  added  to  his  sufferings. 
He  implores  me,  in  each  letter,  since  it  is  impossible  he 
should  at  present  visit  me,  that  I  should  go,  if  only  for 
a  few  moments,  to  see  him." 

"Out  of  all  question — a  monstrous  and  infamous 
proposal  1" 

"  So  I  myself  thought  at  first.  But  if  it  is  true  that  he 
may  die?     Listen,  dear  friend,  tell  me — " 

With  a  rapid,  sweeping  movement  Gabrielle  again  sat 
down  beside  her  friend.  Again  kissed  her  lightly  on  the 
cheek,  manceuvering  the  wide-brimmed  hat  skilfully, 
so  as  to  avoid  scrapings  and  collisions. 

"Listen,"  she  repeated  coaxingly — "for  really  I  find 
myself  in  a  dilemma.  I  cannot  consult  my  mother. 
She  is  timid  and  diffident  before  questions  such  as  these, 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

of  what  is  and  is  not  socially  permissible.  Her  charity, 
dear,  sainted  being,  is  limitless.  It  conflicts  with  her 
natural  timidity.  Between  the  two  she  becomes  in- 
capable of  exercising  clear  judgment.  She  does  not 
comprehend  modern  life." 

"  Few  of  us  do,"  Anastasia  commented. 

"And  her  health  is,  alas,  still  far  from  being  re-estab- 
lished. I  desire  to  spare  her  all  physical  as  well  as  all 
moral  exertion.  Therefore  I  cannot  propose  that  she 
should  accompany  me  to  visit  M.  Rend  Dax.  That 
would  render  my  position  comparatively  simple;  but 
the  excitement  and  fatigue  of  such  a  proceeding  are 
practically  prohibitive  for  her." 

"Am  I  then  to  understand,"  Anastasia  inquired 
somewhat  grimly,  "that  you  kindly  propose  I  should 
play  duenna,  and  call  on  that  singularly  objectionable 
young  man  in  company  with  you?" 

"Ah!  if  it  only  could  be  arranged!  But  I  fear  he 
might  not  improbably  refuse  to  receive  you." 

"Execrable  taste  on  his  part,  of  course.  Yet  I  thank 
him,  for  it  disposes  of  the  matter,  since  you  cannot  go 
alone." 

"But  if  he  should  be  dying?  Ah,  forgive  me,"  she 
cried,  with  charming  penitence.  "  I  weary,  I  even  annoy 
you,  most  dear  Anastasia,  most  cherished,  most  valued 
friend.  It  is  unconscionable  to  do  so  after  you  have 
given  me  the  enjoyment  of  so  charming,  so  inspiriting, 
an  afternoon.  You  should  rest.  I  will  ask  nothing 
more  of  you.     I  will  go." 

"But  not  to  call  on  M.  Rend  Dax—"  she  caught  la 
belle  Gabrielle's  two  hands  in  hers.  "My  darling  child, 
you  must  surely  perceive  the  impropriety,  the  scandal, 
of  such  a  demarche  on  your  part — at  your  age,  with 
your  attractions,  well  known  as  you  are — and,  putting 
prejudice  aside,  with  his  reputation,  whether  deserved 
or  not,  for  libertinism,  for  grossness  of  ideas,  for  reck- 
less indiscretion — " 

289 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Madame  St.  Leger  had  risen.  The  elder  woman  still 
held  her  hands  imprisoned.  She  stood  looking  down, 
the  brim  of  her  hat  forming  a  gray  halo  about  her  abun- 
dant burnished  hair,  and  pale,  grave,  heart-shaped  face. 

"I  perceive  all  that,"  she  answered  quietly.  "I  have 
thought  carefully  of  it.  I  did  so  while  I  yet  was  doubt- 
ful of  the  actuality  of  his  illness.  But  now  that  I  am 
no  longer  doubtful,  that  I  am  assured  he  is  practising 
no  deceit  upon  me,  I  ask  myself  whether  I — who  embrace 
the  nobler  and  larger  conceptions  of  the  office  of  woman 
— am  not  thereby  committed  to  disregard  such  conven- 
tions. Whether  it  is  not  of  the  essence  of  the  reforms,  the 
ideals  for  which  we  work  that  we  should,  each  one  of  us, 
have  the  courage,  when  occasion  arises,  to  defy  tradition. 
Only  to  talk,  is  silly.  To  make  a  protest  of  action  gives 
the  true  measure  of  our  faith,  our  sincerity.  The 
making  of  such  a  protest  against  current  usages  cannot 
be  agreeable.  I  do  not  make  it  light-heartedly,  with  any 
satisfaction  in  my  own  audacity.  To  gratify  myself,  to 
obtain  amusement  or  frivolous  pleasure,  I  would  never 
risk  outraging  the  accepted  code  of  conduct,  the  ac- 
cepted proprieties.  But  for  the  sake  of  one  who  suffers, 
of  one  to  whom — without  vanity — I  believe  my  friend- 
ship to  have  been  helpful — for  the  sake  of  one  whose 
attitude  toward  me  has  been  irreproachable,  and  who, 
though  so  gifted,  is  in  many  ways  so  greatly  to  be 
pitied—" 

She  bent  her  head  and  kissed  her  hostess. 

"Farewell,"  she  said  gently.  "I  shall  not  in  any 
case  go  to-day.  It  is  now  too  late.  But,  beyond  that,  I 
make  no  promises  for  fear  I  may  perjure  myself.  Yes, 
I  have  been  so  happy,  so  happy  this  afternoon.  For 
this,  most  dear  friend,  all  my  thanks." 

Regardless  of  aching  back  and  aching  throat,  Anas- 
tasia  Beauchamp  went  to  the  telephone.  First  she  told 
the  operator,  at  the  exchange,  to  ring  up  the  number  of 
Adrian's  bachelor  flat  in  the  rue  de  I'Universite.     From 

290 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

thence  no  response  was  obtainable.  Nothing  daunted, 
Anastasia  requested  to  be  put  into  communication  with 
the  office  in  the  rue  Druot.  Here  with  polite  alacrity  the 
good  Konski's  amiable  voice  answered  her. 

"Alas,  no!  To  the  desolation  of  his  colleagues  M. 
Savage  had  not  yet  returned.  But  in  a  few  days  he 
would  without  doubt  do  so.  The  conduct  of  the  Review 
compelled  it.  Without  him,  the  machine  refused  any 
longer  to  work.  His  presence  became  imperative. 
Madame  would  write?  Precisely.  Her  letter  should 
receive  his,"  the  good  Konski's,  "most  eager  attention. 
Let  Madame  repose  entire  confidence  in  his  assiduity, 
resting  assured  that  not  an  instant's  delay  should  occur 
in  the  delivery  of  her  distinguished  communication." 


CHAPTER  II 

IN    THE    TRACK    OF   THE    BRAIN-STORM 

"AT  last  you  have  arrived.  Through  an  interminable 
jTx  progression  of  hours  I  have  waited,  the  days  and 
nights  mixing  themselves  into  one  abominable  salad  of 
expectation,  disappointment,  rage  against  those  whom 
I  pictured  as  interfering  to  detain  you;  and,  as  dressing 
and  sauce  to  the  whole  infernal  compound,  a  yearning 
for  the  assuaging  repose  of  your  presence  which  gnawed, 
like  the  undying  worm,  at  my  entrails." 

This  address,  although  delivered  in  the  young  man's 
accustomed  unemotional  manner,  with  studied,  care- 
fully modulated  utterance,  was  hardly  calculated  to 
allay  the  embarrassment  or  disquietude  aroused  by  the 
uncompromising  stare  of  the  concierge,  and  very  evident, 
though  more  deferential,  curiosity  of  Giovanni,  the 
bright-eyed,  velvet-spoken  Italian  man-servant  who 
admitted  her. 

Nor  were  other  sources  of  discomfort  lacking.  Madame 
St.  Leger,  like  all  persons  of  temperament,  in  whom 
mind  and  body,  the  soul  and  senses,  are  constantly  and 
actively  interpenetrative,  instinctively  responded  to  the 
spiritual  influences  which  reside  in  places  and  even  in 
material  objects.  Now,  coming  directly  into  it  from  the 
glitter  and  movement,  the  thousand  and  one  very  articu- 
late activities  of  the  sun-bathed  city,  the  vivid  foliage  of 
whose  many  trees  tossed  in  the  crisp  freshness  of  the 
summer  wind,  Rene*  Dax's  studio  struck  her  as  the 
strangest  and,  perhaps,  most  repellant  human  habitation 
she  had  ever  yet  set  foot  in.     Struck  her,  too,  as  belong- 

292 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

ing  to  a  section  of  that  exclusively  man's  world,  in  which 
woman's  part  is  at  once  fugitive  and  not  a  little  sus- 
pect. 

The  black  hangings  and  furniture  stared  at,  the  bare 
immaculately  white  walls  bluffed,  her.  Only  a  mournful 
travesty  of  the  splendid  daylight,  reigning  out  of  doors, 
filtered  down  through  the  gathered  black-stuff  blinds 
drawn  across  the  great,  sloping  skylights,  and  con- 
tended languidly  against  the  harsh  clarity  of  a  couple  of 
electric  lights — with  flat  smoked-glass  shades  to  them— 
hanging,  spider-like,  at  the  end  of  long  black  cords  from 
the  beam  supporting  the  central  span  of  the  arched  ceil- 
ing. Notwithstanding  the  height  of  the  room  and  its 
largeness  of  area,  the  atmosphere  was  stagnant,  listless, 
and  dead.  This  constituted  Madame  St.  Leger's  initial 
impression.  This,  and  a  singular  persuasion — returning 
upon  her  stealthily,  persistently,  though  she  strove 
honestly  to  cast  it  out — that  the  studio,  although  appar- 
ently so  bare  and  empty,  was,  in  point  of  fact,  crowded 
by  forms  and  conceptions  the  reverse  of  wholesome  or 
ennobling,  which  pushed  upon  and  jostled  her,  while,  by 
their  number  and  grossness,  they  further  exhausted  the 
already  lifeless  air. 

The  sense  of  suffocation,  thus  produced,  so  oppressed 
her  that  her  heart  beat  nervously  and  her  pulse  fluttered. 
Though  unwilling  to  discard  the  modest  shelter  it  af- 
forded and  gain  closer  acquaintance  with  the  details  of 
her  surroundings,  Gabrielle  untwisted  the  flowing  gray 
veil  which  she  wore  over  her  hat  and  around  her  throat, 
and  threw  it  back  from  her  face.  Then,  for  a  while,  all 
else  was  forgotten  in  the  thought  of,  the  sight  of,  Rend 
Dax.  And,  although  that  thought  and  seeing  was  in 
itself  painful,  it  tended  to  restore  both  her  outward 
serenity  and  her  inward  assurance  and  strength. 

"Ah!  my  poor  friend,"  she  said,  soothingly,  "had  I 
understood  how  suffering  you  were,  how  greatly  in  need 
of  sympathy,  I  would  have  put  aside  obstacles  and  come 

293 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

to  you  sooner;  though — though  you  will  still  remem- 
ber, it  is  no  small  concession  that  I  should  come  at 
all." 

"Only  by  concessions  is  life  rendered  supportable," 
he  answered.  "I  too  have  made  concessions.  If  you 
defy  conventional  decorum  for  my  sake,  I,  on  the 
other  hand,  have  sacrificed  to  it  for  your  sake  very 
royally.  I  have  destroyed  the  labor  of  months,  have 
obliterated  priceless  records  to  safeguard  your  delicacy, 
to  insure  you  immunity — should  you  at  last  visit  me — 
from  all  offense." 

And  la  belle  Gabrielle,  listening,  was  moved  and 
touched.  But  she  asked  no  explanation — shrank  from  it, 
indeed,  divining  the  sacrifice  in  question  bore  vital 
relation  to  that  unseen  yet  jostling,  unwholesome  and 
ignoble  crowd.  She  therefore  rallied  the  mothering, 
ministering  spirit  within  her,  resolving  to  let  speech, 
action  and  feeling  be  inspired  and  controlled  by  this, 
and  this  alone. 

For  one  thing  was  indisputable — namely,  that  Rene1 
Dax,  caricaturist  and  poet,  was,  as  the  cleanly  young 
American  yesterday  told  her,  just  as  sick  a  man  as  any 
man  need  be.  His  puny  person  had  wasted.  He  looked 
all  head — all  brain,  rather,  since  his  tired  little  face 
seemed  to  also  have  dwindled  and  to  occupy  the  most 
restricted  space  permissible  in  proportion  to  the  whole. 
The  full,  black  linen  painting-blouse,  which  he  wore  in 
place  of  a  coat,  produced,  along  with  his  lowness  of 
stature,  a  queerly  youthful  and  even  childish  effect.  To 
stand  on  ceremony  with  this  small,  sad  human  being, 
still  more  to  go  in  fear  of  it,  to  regard  it  as  possibly  dan- 
gerous, its  poor  little  neighborhood  as  in  any  degree 
compromising,  was  to  Gabrielle  St.  Leger  altogether 
absurd  and  unworthy.  Let  the  overpunctilious  or 
overworldly  say  what  they  pleased,  she  congratulated 
herself.  She  was  glad  to  have  disregarded  opposition, 
glad  to  have  come.     Where  custom  and  humanity  con- 

294 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

flict— so  she  told  herself— let  it  be  custom  which  goes  to 
the  wall. 

Therewith  she  drew  herself  up  proudly,  and,  carrying 
her  charming  head  high,  looked  bravely  around  the 
strange  and  somewhat  sinister  place.  Noted  the  wide 
divans  on  either  side  the  fireplace  and  the  diminutive 
scarlet  cane  chair  set  on  the  hearth-rug;  the  five-fold 
red  lacquer  screen;  the  trophy  of  arms — swords,  rapiers, 
simitars,  daggers,  and  other  such  uncomfortably  cutting, 
ripping,  and  stabbing  tools — upon  the  chimney-breast 
above  the  mantelpiece.  Noted,  not  without  a  shud- 
der of  disgust,  the  glass  tank  and  its  slimy  swimming 
and  crawling  population;  the  tables  loaded  with 
books,  materials  and  implements  of  the  draftsman's 
craft;  the  model's  platform;  the  array  of  portfolios, 
canvases,  drawing-boards — surely  the  place  had  been 
very  scrupulously  swept  and  garnished  against  her 
coming!  It  was  minutely,  even  rigidly,  clean  and  neat. 
This  pleased  her  as  a  pretty  tribute  of  respect.  Finally, 
her  eyes  sought  the  nearly  life-size  red-chalk  drawing  set 
on  an  easel  in  the  center  of  the  studio  immediately  be- 
neath the  electric  light. 

Rene"  Dax  stood  beside  her.  She  tall,  noticeably  ele- 
gant in  her  short-waisted,  long-coated,  pale-gray,  braided 
walking-dress.  He  reserved  and  weary  in  bearing,  but 
very  watchful  and  very  intent. 

"You  observe  my  drawing?"  he  inquired  softly.  "I 
have  been  waiting  for  that — waiting  for  you  to  grasp  the 
fact  that  there  is  nothing  new,  nothing  extraordinary  in 
your  being  here  with  me — you,  and  Mademoiselle  Bette. 
For  months  now  you  are  my  companions  all  day  and  all 
night — yes,  then  very  sensibly  also.  Look,  I  lie  there 
upon  the  divan.  I  fold  the  red  screen  back — it  is  loot 
from  the  Imperial  Palace  at  Peking,  that  screen.  Gro- 
tesquely sanguinary  scenes  figure  upon  it.  But  I  forget 
them  and  the  entertainment  they  afford  me. — I  fold 
the  screen  back,     I  turn  upon  my  side  among  the  cush- 

295 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

ions  and  I  look  at  you.  I  look  until,  on  those  nights 
when  my  will  is  active  and  yours  in  abeyance,  or  perhaps 
a  little  weak,  you  step  off  the  paper  and  cross  the  room, 
there — between  the  platform  and  the  long  table —  always 
carrying  Mademoiselle  Bette  on  your  arm;  and,  coming 
close,  you  bend  down  over  me.  You  never  speak, 
neither  do  you  touch  me.  But  I  cease  to  suffer.  The 
tension  of  my  nerves  is  relaxed.  The  hideous  pain  at 
the  base  of  my  skull,  where  the  brain  and  spinal-cord 
form  their  junction,  no  longer  tortures  me.  I  am  in- 
expressibly soothed.     I  become  calm.     I  sleep." 

Gabrielle  St.  Leger  had  grown  very  serious.  For  this 
small,  sad  human  being  to  whom  she  proposed  to  minister 
and  to  mother  had  disconcertingly  original  and  even 
consternating  ways  with  it.  Should  she  resent  the  said 
ways,  soundly  snubbing  him?  Or,  making  allowance 
for  his  ill-health  and  acknowledged  eccentricity,  parley 
with  and  humor  him?  To  steer  a  wise  course  was 
difficult. 

"I  willingly  believe  your  intention  in  making  this 
drawing  was  not  disloyal,"  she  said,  quietly.  "Yet  I 
cannot  but  be  displeased.  Before  making  it  you  should 
have  asked  my  approval  and  obtained  my  consent." 

"Which  you  would  have  refused? — No,  I  knew  better 
than  that.  But  dismiss  the  idea  of  disloyalty.  Rise 
above  paltry  considerations  of  expediency  and  etiquette. 
You  can  do  so  if  you  choose.  Accept  the  position  in  its 
gravity,  in  its  permanent  consequences  both  to  me  and 
to  yourself.  In  making  this  drawing  I  thought  not 
merely  of  the  ease  and  relief  I  might  obtain  through  it. 
I  thought  of  you  also.  For  I  perceived  the  perversion 
which  threatened  you.  I  decided  to  intervene,  to  rescue 
you.  I  decided  to  co-operate  with  destiny,  to  interest 
myself  in  the  evolution  of  your  highest  good.  So  now  it 
amounts  to  no  less  than  this — that  your  future  and  mine 
are  inextricably  conjoined,  intermingled,  incapable  of 
separation  henceforth." 

296 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"Gently,  gently,  my  poor  friend,"  Gabrielle  said. 

"Are  you  not  then  sorry  for  me?"  he  asked  quickly, 
with  very  disarming  and  child-like  pathos.  "Is  it  a 
fraud,  a  heartless  experiment,  coming  to-day  to  see  me 
thus  ?  Have  you  no  real  desire  to  console  or  bring  me 
hope?" 

"From  my  heart  I  pity  and  commiserate  you," 
Gabrielle  said. 

"  Then  where  is  your  logic,  where  is  your  reason  ?  For 
I — I — Rene"  Dax — I,  and  my  recovery,  my  welfare, 
constitute  your  highest  good.  I  am  your  destiny.  Your 
being  here  to-day  regardless  of  etiquette,  your  stepping 
off  the  paper  there  upon  the  easel,  crossing  the  room  and 
bending  over  me  at  night,  carrying  the  little  maiden 
child,  the  flower  of  innocence,  in  your  arms,  these  are 
at  least  a  tacit  admission  of  the  truth  of  that." 

A  point  of  fear  came  into  Madame  St.  Leger's  eyes. 
Outward  serenity,  inward  assurance,  were  not  easy  of 
maintenance.  The  more  so,  that  again  she  was  very 
sensible  of  the  unseen  crowd  of  ignoble  forms  and  con- 
ceptions peopling  the  room,  tainting  and  exhausting  the 
air  of  it,  pressing  upon  and — as  she  felt — deriding  her. 

"You  speak  foolishly  and  extravagantly,"  she  said, 
steadying  her  voice  with  effort.  "  I  pardon  that  because 
I  know  that  you  are  suffering  and  not  altogether  master 
of  yourself.  But  I  do  not  enjoy  this  conversation.  I 
beg  you  to  talk  more  becomingly,  or  I  shall  be  unable  to 
remain.     I  shall  feel  compelled  to  leave  you." 

For  an  instant  Rend  Dax  looked  up  at  her  with  a 
positively  diabolic  expression  of  resentment.  Then  his 
face  was  distorted  by  a  sudden  spasm. 

"It  is  only  too  true  that  I  suffer,"  he  cried  bitterly. 
"My  head  aches — there  at  the  base  of  my  brain.  It  is 
like  the  grinding  of  iron  knuckles.  I  become  distracted. 
Very  probably  I  speak  extravagantly.  My  sensations 
are  extravagant,  and  my  talk  matches  them.  But  do 
not  leave  me.     I  will  not  offend  you.     I  will  be  alto- 

297 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

gether  good,  altogether  mild  and  amiable.  Only  re- 
main. Place  yourself  here  in  this  chair.  Your  presence 
comforts  and  pacifies  me — but  only  if  you  are  in  sym- 
pathy with  me.  Let  your  sympathy  flow  out  then.  Do 
not  restrain  it.  Let  it  surround  and  support  me,  buoying 
me  up,  so  that  I  float  upon  the  surface  of  it  as  upon  some 
divine  river  of  peace.  Ah,  Madame,  pity  me.  I  am  so 
tired  of  pain." 

Reluctantly,  out  of  her  charity  and  against  her  better, 
her  mundane  judgment,  Gabrielle  St.  Leger  yielded. 
She  sat  down  in  the  large,  black  brocade-covered  chair 
indicated.  Her  back  was  toward  the  drawing  upon  the 
easel.  She  was  glad  not  to  see  it,  glad  that  the  electric 
light  no  longer  glared  in  her  eyes.  She  clasped  her 
hands  lightly  in  her  lap,  trying  to  subdue  all  inward 
agitation,  to  maintain  a  perfectly  sane  and  normal  out- 
look, thereby  infusing  something  of  her  own  health  and 
sweetness  as  a  disinfectant  into  this  morbid  atmosphere. 

The  young  man  sat  down,  too,  upon  the  edge  of  the 
divan  just  opposite  to  her.  He  set  his  elbows  upon  his 
knees,  his  big  head  projected  forward,  his  eyes  closed, 
his  chin  resting  in  the  hollow  of  his  hard,  clever  little 
hands.  For  a  time  there  was  silence,  save  for  the  drip- 
ping of  the  fountain  in  the  glass  tank,  and  the  ticking  of 
a  clock.     Presently,  very  softly,  he  began  to  speak. 

"My  art  is  killing  me — killing  me — and  only  you  and 
Mademoiselle  Bette  can  save  me,"  he  said.  "And  I  am 
worth  saving;  for,  not  only  am  I  the  most  accomplished 
draftsman  of  the  century,  but  my  knowledge  of  the  hu- 
man animal  is  unsurpassed.  Moreover,  that  I  should  die 
is  so  inconceivably  purposeless.  Death  is  such  a  stupid- 
ity, such  an  outrage  on  intelligence  and  common -sense." 

Gabrielle  remained  passive.  To  reason  with  him 
would,  she  felt,  be  useless  as  yet.  She  would  wait  her 
opportunity. 

"  Yes,  my  art  is  killing  me,"  he  went  on.  "It  asks  too 
much.     More  than  once  I  have  tried  to  sever  myself 

298 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

from  it;  but  it  is  the  stronger.  It  refuses  amputation. 
Long  ago,  when,  as  a  child — unhappy,  devoured  by  fan- 
cies, by  curiosity  about  myself,  about  other  children, 
about  everything  which  I  saw — I  found  that  I  possessed 
this  talent,  I  was  both  shy  and  enchanted.  It  gave  me 
power.  Everything  that  I  looked  at  belonged  to  me. 
I  could  reproduce  it  in  beauty  or  the  reverse.  I  could 
cover  with  ridicule  those  who  annoyed  me.  By  means 
of  my  talent  I  could  torment.  I  played  with  it  as 
naughty  little  boys  play  together,  ingenious  in  provoca- 
tion, in  malice,  in  dirty  monkey  tricks.  Then  as  I  grew 
older  I  enjoyed  my  talent  languorously.  I  spent  long 
days  of  dreams,  long  nights  of  love  with  it.  That  was  a 
period  when  my  heart  was  still  soft.  I  believed.  The 
trivial  vices  of  the  little  boy  were  left  behind.  The  full- 
blooded  vices  of  manhood  were  untried  as  yet.  Later 
ambition  took  me.  I  would  study.  I  would  know. 
I  would  train  my  eye  and  my  hand  to  perfect  mastery 
in  observation  and  in  execution.  My  own  mechanical 
skill,  my  power  of  memorizing,  of  visualizing,  intoxicated 
me.  I  reviewed  the  work  of  famous  draftsmen.  I 
recognized  that  I  was  on  the  highroad  to  surpass  it,  both 
in  effrontery  of  conception  and  perfection  of  technique. 
I  refused  my  art  nothing,  shrank  from  nothing.  I  had 
loved  my  art  as  a  companion  in  childish  mischief;  then 
as  a  youth  loves  his  first  mistress.  Now  I  loved  it  as  a 
man  loves  his  career,  loves  that  which  raises  him  above 
his  contemporaries.  I  stood  above  others,  alone.  I  was 
filled  with  an  immense  scorn  of  them.  I  unveiled  their 
deceit,  their  hypocrisy,  their  ignorance,  their  vileness,  the 
degradation  of  their  minds  and  habits.  I  whipped  them 
till  the  blood  came.  No  one  could  escape.  I  jeered.  I 
laughed.  I  made  them  laugh  too.  Between  the  cuts 
of  the  lash,  even  while  the  blood  flowed,  they  laughed. 
How  could  they  help  doing  so  ?  My  wit  was  irresistible. 
They  cursed  me,  yet  shouted  to  me  to  lay  on  to  them 
again." 

20  299 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

For  a  minute  or  more  silence,  save  for  the  dripping 
fountain,  the  ticking  clock,  and  a  bubbling,  sucking 
sound  as  one  of  the  black-and-orange  blotched  newts 
dived  from  the  rockwork  down  to  the  sandy,  pebbly 
floor  of  the  glass  tank.  Madame  St.  Leger  leaned  back 
in  her  chair.  She  pressed  her  handkerchief  against  her 
lips.  She  felt  as  one  who  witnesses  some  terrible  drama 
upon  the  stage  which  holds  the  attention  captive. 
She  could  not  have  gone  away  and  left  Rene'  Dax  until 
the  scene  was  concluded,  even  if  she  would. 

"That  was  the  period  of  my  apotheosis,  when  I  ap- 
peared to  myself  as  a  god, — last  year,  the  year  before 
last,  even  this  winter,"  he  said,  presently,  "before  the 
pain  came  and  while  still  I  myself  was  greater  than 
my  art.  But  now,  now,  to-day,  I  do  not  laugh  any 
more,  nor  can  I  make  others  laugh.  My  art  is  greater 
than  I.  It  has  grown  unruly,  arrogant.  I  am  unequal 
to  its  demands.  It  asks  of  me  what  I  am  no  longer  able 
to  give.  It  hounds  me  along.  It  storms  at  me — 'Go 
further  yet,  imagine  the  unimaginable,  pass  all  known 
limits.  You  are  too  squeamish,  too  fastidious,  too 
modest,  too  nice.  There  yet  remain  sanctities  to  be  de- 
filed, shames  to  be  depicted,  agonies  to  be  stewed  in  the 
vitriol  juice  of  sarcasm.  Go  forward.  You  are  lazy. 
Exert  yourself.  Discover  fresh  subjects.  Invent  new 
profanities.  Turn  the  spit  on  which  you  have  impaled 
humanity  faster  and  faster.  Draw  better — you  grow 
lethargic,  indolent — draw  better  and  better  yet.' — But  I 
cannot,  I  cannot,"  Ren6  Dax  said,  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  drooping  like  those  of  a  tired  baby.  "We  have 
changed  places,  my  art  and  I.  It  is  greater  than  me. 
It  masters  me  instead  of  my  mastering  it.  Like  some 
huge  brazen  Moloch,  with  burning,  brazen  arms  it  presses 
me  against  its  burning,  brazen  breast,  scorching  me  to  a 
cinder.  It  has  squeezed  me  dry — dry — I  am  no  longer 
able  to  collect  my  ideas,  to  memorize  that  which  I  see. 
My  imagination  is  sterile.     My  hand  refuses  to  obey  my 

300 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

brain.  My  line,  my  beloved,  my  unexampled  line, 
wavers,  is  broken,  uncertain,  loses  itself.  I  scrabble 
unmeaning  nonsense  upon  the  paper." 

He  unbuttoned  the  wristband  of  his  blouse  and 
stripped  up  the  sleeve  of  it. 

"See,"  he  went  on,  "how  my  muscles  have  deterio- 
rated. My  arm  resembles  some  withered,  sapless  twig. 
Soon  I  shall  not  possess  sufficient  strength  to  hold  a 
pencil  or  a  bit  of  charcoal.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  what  you 
would  say.  Others  have  already  said  it.  Travel,  try 
change  of  scene,  rest,  consult  doctors.  But  pah! 
Butchers,  carrion-feeders,  what  can  they  tell  me  which 
I  do  not  know  already?     For — for — " 

He  rose,  came  nearer  to  Gabrielle  St.  Leger,  pointing 
to  the  inner  corner  of  the  great  room  in  a  line  with  the 
door. 

"There,"  he  said,  with  a  singular  sly  gleefulness, 
' '  there — you  see,  Madame,  behind  the  portfolio -wagon  ? 
Yes? — It  has  its  lair  there,  its  retreat  in  which  it  con- 
ceals itself.  It  always  says  one  thing,  and  it  always 
tells  the  truth.  It  has  once  been  a  man;  now  it  has  no 
skin.  You  can  observe  all  the  muscles  and  sinews  in 
action,  which  is  extremely  instructive.  But  naturally  it 
is  red — red  all  over.  And  it  is  highly  varnished,  other- 
wise, of  course,  it  would  feel  the  cold  too  much.  It 
places  its  red  hands  on  the  edges  of  the  portfolios — 
thus — and  it  vaults  into  the  room.  It  is  astonishingly 
agile.  I  think  it  may  formerly  have  been,  by  pro- 
fession, an  acrobat,  it  runs  so  very  swiftly.  Its  con- 
tortions are  infinite.  It  avoids  the  pieces  of  furniture 
with  extraordinary  dexterity.  Sometimes  it  leaps  over 
them.  The  rapidity  of  its  movements  excites  me.  The 
pain — here  at  the  base  of  my  skull — always  increases 
when  I  see  it.  I  cannot  restrain  myself.  I  pursue  it 
with  frenzy.  I  hurl  books,  pictures,  firewood,  any- 
thing I  can  lay  hands  upon,  at  it — even  my  precious 
daggers  and  javelins  from  off  the  wall.     But  it  sustains 

301 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

no  injury.  They — these  objects  which  I  throw — pass 
clean  through  it;  yet  they  leave  no  aperture,  no  mark. 
My  servant  afterward  finds  them  scattered  upon  the 
ground  quite  clean  and  free  from  moisture.  And,  as  it 
runs,  it  screams  to  me,  over  its  red  shoulder,  in  a  rasp- 
ing voice  like  the  cutting  of  stone  with  a  saw,  '  You  are 
going  mad,  Rene"  Dax.     You  are  going  mad — mad.'" 

Madame  St.  Leger  raised  both  hands  in  mute  horror, 
pity,  protest.  Her  lips  trembled.  The  tears  ran  down 
her  cheeks.  The  young  man  watched  her  for  some 
seconds,  the  strangest  expression  of  triumph  upon  his 
solemn  little  face.  Then,  with  a  great  sigh,  he  backed 
away  and  sat  down  on  the  divan  once  more. 

"Ah!  Ah!"  he  said,  quite  calmly  and  gently.  "It  is 
so  adorable  to  see  you  weep!  Better  even  than  that 
you  should  step  down  off  the  easel,  as  you  sometimes  do 
at  night,  and,  crossing  the  room,  bend  over  me  and  give 
me  sleep.  Still  the  red  man  speaks  truth,  Madame, 
accurate,  unassailable  truth.  It  comes  just  to  this. 
Very  soon  now  the  final  act  of  this  infernal  comedy  will 
be  reached.     I  shall  be  mad — unless — " 


CHAPTER  III 

IN    WHICH   THE    STORM    BREAKS 

UNLESS— unless— what  ?" 
Gabrielle  St.  Leger  asked  the  question  not  be- 
cause she  wished  to  ask  it,  but  because  outward  things 
forced  her. 

All  disease  is  actually  infecting,  if  not  actively  in- 
fectious, since  contact  with  it  disturbs  the  emotional 
and  functional  equilibrium,  maintenance  of  which  con- 
stitutes perfect  health.  Such  disturbance  is  most 
readily  and  injuriously  produced  in  persons  of  fine 
sensibility.  Just  now  Madame  St.  Leger's  faculties  and 
feelings  alike  were  in  disarray.  Rene"  Dax,  his  genius 
and  the  neurosis  from  which  he  suffered,  his  strange 
dwelling-place,  all  that  which  had  happened  in  and — 
morally — adhered  to  it,  combined  to  put  compulsion 
upon  her.  In  a  sense,  she  knew  the  world.  She  was 
not  inexperienced.  But  the  amenities  of  a  polished  and 
highly  civilized  society,  whose  principal  business  it  is  to 
veil  and  mitigate  the  asperities  of  fact,  had  stood  between 
her  and  direct  acquaintance  with  the  fundamental 
brutalities  of  life.  Now  she  consciously  met  the  shock 
of  those  brutalities,  and  met  it  single-handed.  This 
exclusively  man's  world,  the  gates  of  which  she  had 
forced  with  wilful  self-confidence,  produced  in  her  humil- 
iation and  helplessness,  a  sense  of  having  projected  her- 
self into  regions  where  accustomed  laws  are  inoperative 
and  direction-posts — for  guidance  of  wandering  feminine 
footsteps — agitatingly  non-existent.  Under  this  stress 
of  circumstance  her  initiative  deserted  her.     The  vein  of 

303 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

irony — running  like  a  steel  ribbon  through  her  mentality 
—became  suddenly  and  queerly  worked  out.  She  could 
not  detach  herself  from  the  immediate  position,  stand 
aside,  review  it  as  a  whole,  and  deal  with  it.  That  which 
made  for  individuality  had  gone  under.  Only  her 
womanhood  as  womanhood — a  womanhood  sheltered, 
petted,  moving  ever  in  a  gracefully  artificial  atmosphere 
— was  left.  She  had  come,  intending  to  console,  to 
minister,  sagely  to  advise.  It  looked  quite  anxiously 
much  as  though,  tyrannized  by  rude,  unfamiliar  forces, 
she  would  remain  to  yield  and  to  obey.  Thus,  taking  up 
the  tag-end  of  Rene"  Dax's  speech,  she  asked,  unwillingly, 
almost  fearfully: 

"Unless — unless  what?" 

"Unless  you  consent  to  save  me,  Madame,"  he  replied, 
with  insinuating  gravity  and  sweetness.  "Unless  you 
consecrate  yourself  to  the  work  of  my  recovery,  you 
and  the  delicious  Mademoiselle  Bette." 

"But,  my  poor  friend,"  she  reasoned,  "how  is  it 
possible  for  me  to  do  that?" 

"In  a  way  very  obvious  and  simple,  wholly  consonant 
to  the  most  exalted  aspirations  of  your  nature,"  he  re- 
turned. "I  have  planned  it  all  out.'  No  serious  diffi- 
culties present  themselves.  Good  will,  Madame,  on 
your  part,  some  forethought  on  mine,  and  all  is  satis- 
factorily arranged.  As  to  Mademoiselle  Bette,  she  will 
find  herself  in  a  veritable  paradise.  You  know  her 
affection  for  me?  And,  putting  aside  my  own  gifts  as  a 
comrade,  I  have  most  pleasing  little  animals  for  her  to 
play  with.  You  have  seen  those  in  the  aquarium? 
There  is  also  Aristides.  To  my  anguish  I  struck  him 
last  night  with  a  hearth-brush  during  my  pursuit  of  the 
red  man,  and  Giovanni  has  charge  of  him  in  hospital 
to-day.  The  affair  was  purely  accidental.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  he  bears  me  no  malice,  poor  cherished  little 
cabbage;  yet  it  cuts  me  to  the  quick  to  see  his  empty 
chair.     But  to  return  to  your  coming,  Madame.     For  it 

304 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

is  thus  that  you  will  save  me — by  coming  here  to  remain 
permanently,  by  devoting  yourself  to  me  unremittingly, 
exclusively — by  coming  here — here  to  live." 

The  color  rushed  into  Madame  St.  Leger's  face  and 
neck.  Then  ebbed,  leaving  her  white  to  the  lips,  deathly 
white  as  against  the  black  brocade  of  the  chair-back. 
Here  was  a  direction-post,  at  last,  with  information 
written  upon  it  of — as  it  seemed  to  her — the  very  plainest 
and  ugliest  sort ;  the  road  which  it  signalized  leading  to 
well-known  and  wholly  undesirable  places,  though  trod- 
den, only  too  frequently,  by  wandering  feminine  feet! 
For  the  moment  she  doubted  his  good  faith;  doubted 
whether  he  was  not  playing  some  infamous  trick  upon 
her;  doubted  whether  his  illness  was  not,  after  all,  a 
treacherous  fabrication.  Her  mouth  and  throat  went 
dry  as  a  lime-kiln.     She  could  barely  articulate. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said  sternly,  "I  fear  it  is  already  too 
late  to  save  you.  In  making  such  a  proposition  you 
show  only  too  convincingly  that  you  are  already  mad." 

But  the  young  man's  expression  lost  nothing  of  its 
triumph  or  his  manner  of  its  sweetness. 

"  Madame,  that  is  a  very  cruel  speech,"  he  said. 

"  You  deserve  it  should  be  cruel,"  she  answered. 

"Indeed,"  Rene  replied, looking  calmly  at  her.  "In- 
deed, I  do  not.  You  rush  too  hastily  to  injurious  con- 
clusions. It  is  an  error  to  do  so.  You  cause  yourself 
unnecessary  annoyance.  You,  also,  cause  me  a  waste 
of  tissue,  which,  in  my  existing  condition  of  health,  I  can 
ill  afford.  It  is  irrevocably  decided  that  you  come  here 
to  live.  Evidently  it  has  to  be.  I  make  no  disloyal 
proposition  to  you.  As  I  have  told  you,  I  earnestly  con- 
sider your  good.  It  is  to  rescue  you  from  threatening 
perversions  of  office  and  of  instinct,  from  declension  to 
a  lower  emotional  level,  that  I  invite  you,  require  you, 
to  make  your  home  with  me.  For  I  crave  your  pres- 
ence not  as  other  men  crave  for  association  with  so 
beautiful  a  person — that  is,  sensually,  for  gratification 

305 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

of  the  beast  within  them — but  spiritually,  as  an  object  of 
faith,  an  object  of  worship,  as  a  healing  and  purifying 
aura,  a  divine  emanation  efficacious  to  the  exorcism  of 
that  devouring  "devil,  my  art.  Mistress — wife — pah ! — 
Madame,  my  art  has  been  all  that  to  me,  and  more  than 
that — not  to  mention  those  more  active  amatory  excur- 
sions, common  to  generous  youth,  in  which  I  do  not  deny 
participation.  But  my  art  has  never  been  to  me  that 
thing  so  far  more  sacred,  more  human — a  mother." 

Rene"  Dax  leaned  toward  her,  both  arms  wide  extended, 
his  somber  eyes  glowing  as  though  a  red  lamp  shone  be- 
hind them,  his  features  contracted  by  spasms  of  pain. 

"This,"  he  pursued,  "is  what  I  ask,  what  in  the  depths 
and  heights,  in  the  utmost  sincerity  of  my  being,  I  need 
and  must  have. — The  Madonna  of  the  Future,  the  per- 
fect woman,  whose  experience  as  woman  is  at  once 
passionless  and  complete,  human  yet  spiritual — the  ever- 
lasting mother.  A  mother,  moreover,  such  as  in  the  en- 
tire course  of  the  uncounted  ages  no  man  has  ever  yet 
possessed;  still  young,  young  as  himself,  unsoiled,  untired, 
still  in  the  spring-time  of  her  charm,  yet  mysterious,  in 
a  sense  awful,  so  that  she  is  hedged  about  with  inviolable 
reverence  and  respect,  the  intimate  wonders  of  whose 
beauty  never  fully  disclose  themselves,  but  continue 
adorably  unknown  and  remote.  This  is  what  I  need; 
and  this  you  only  can  give.  It  is  your  unique  and  com- 
manding destiny.  You  must,  rallying  your  fortitude 
and  virtue,  rise  to  it." 

He  stood  up,  his  head  thrown  back,  his  arms  still  ex- 
tended, as  he  indicated  the  extent  and  appointments 
of  the  studio  with  large,  sweeping  gestures. 

"See,"  he  cried,  in  increasing  excitement,  "here  is  the 
temple  prepared  for  your  worship !  I  had  decorated  the 
walls  of  it  with  obscenities  which  have  caused  rapture 
to  the  most  emancipated  intellects  in  Paris.  To  spare 
you  offense,  when  I  decided  that  you  should  come  to 
me,  I  sent  for  plasterers,  for  whitewashes,  who,  even 

306 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

while  they  worked,  rocked  with  laughter  at  the  master- 
pieces of  humor  they  were  in  process  of  destroying. 
The  more  intelligent  of  them  mutinied,  declaring  it 
vandalism  to  obliterate  such  expressions  of  genius.  I 
seized  a  brush.  I  myself  worked,  hailing  invectives  upon 
them.  I  never  rested  till  my  purpose  was  achieved. 
Then,  when  the  temple  was  cleansed,  I  wrote  to 
you." 

He  sank  down,  squatting  on  the  carpet,  a  queer  black 
lump  amid  the  surrounding  blackness,  his  shoulders 
resting  against  the  front  of  the  divan,  his  hands  clasped 
behind  and  supporting  his  pale,  unwieldy  head. 

"Ah,  ah!"  he  cried  plaintively;  "the  pain,  the  pain 
— again  it  pierces  me!  It  becomes  extravagant.  Sure- 
ly, Madame,  I  need  not  explain  to  you  any  further? 
You  witness  my  sufferings.  Terminate  them.  It  is  in 
your  power  to  do  so.  You  cannot  refuse  a  request  so 
wholly  reasonable  and  natural !  You  consent  to  remain 
with  me  ? — There  need  be  no  delay.  Giovanni,  my  ser- 
vant, is  a  good  fellow,  trustworthy  and  intelligent.  He 
will  take  a  motor-cab  and  proceed  immediately  to  the 
Quai  Malaquais.  After  informing  Madame,  your  mother, 
that  you  remain  here  permanently,  he  will  return  accom- 
panied by  Mademoiselle  Bette.  Within  the  course  of 
half  an  hour  the  thing  is  done;  it  becomes  an  accom- 
plished fact.  Your  welfare  is  assured;  and  I,  Madame, 
I  am  rescued  from  the  bottomless  pit,  from  a  hell  of  un- 
speakable disgust. — The  pain  ceases.  The  brazen  Mo- 
loch no  longer  presses  me  to  his  burning  breast.  I  am 
recreated.  My  childhood  is  given  back  to  me — but  a 
childhood  of  such  peace,  such  innocent  gaiety  as  no 
child  ever  yet  experienced.  I  sleep  in  exquisite  content. 
I  wake,  not  merely  to  find  and  pray  for  help  from  your 
image  reflected  there  upon  paper,  but  to  find  you  your- 
self my  guest  and  my  savior,  you  here  moving  to  and 
fro  among  my  possessions,  breathing,  speaking,  smiling, 
making  day  and  night  alike  fragrant  by  your  presence, 

3°7 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

distilling  the  healing  virtue  of  a  deified  maternity,  of  an 
enshrined  and  consecrated  life." 

As  he  finished  speaking  the  young  man  rose  to  his 
feet.  He  came  near  to  Gabrielle,  and  stood  looking 
down  at  her,  solemn,  imploring,  yet  with  a  strange, 
flickering  impishness  in  his  manner  and  his  face.  He 
clasped  his  hard  little  hands,  turning  the  palms  of  them 
outward,  alternately  bowing  over  her  and  rising  on  tip- 
toe, holding  himself  stiffly  erect. 

"Can  you  hesitate,  Madame?"  softly  and  sweetly  he 
asked.  "No — assuredly — it  is  inconceivable  that  you 
should  hesitate!" 

Gabrielle  had  stripped  off  her  gloves,  thrown  back 
the  fronts  of  her  coat.  Her  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  an 
abrupt  irregular  motion  under  the  lace  and  chiffon  of 
her  blouse.  More  than  ever  was  the  air  dead,  the  atmos- 
phere suffocating.  More  than  ever  did  those  depraved 
forms  and  conceptions,  defying  expulsion  by  plaster  and 
whitewash,  crowd  in  upon  and  oppress  her.  Super- 
natural, moral,  and  physical  terror,  joining  hands, 
created  a  very  evil  magic  circle  around  her,  isolating 
her,  cutting  her  off  from  all  familiar,  amusing,  pleasant, 
tender  and  gracious  every -day  matters  dear  to  her  social 
and  domestic  sense.  She  no  longer  entertained  any 
doubt  about  the  young  man's  mental  condition.  Shut 
away  with  him  here,  alone,  behind  closed  doors,  beneath 
black -muffled  skylights,  with  only  clay-cold  fish  and 
reptiles  as  witnesses,  the  situation  began  to  appear 
alarming  in  the  extreme.  How  to  effect  her  escape? 
How  to  temporize  until  rescue  should  in  some  form 
come  to  her?  Her  circumstances  were  so  incredible,  so 
nightmarish  in  their  improbability,  their  merciless  real- 
ity, their  insane  logic,  that  her  brain  reeled  under  the 
strain.  Wordlessly  but  passionately  she  prayed  for 
strength,  guidance,  help. 

"It  is  inconceivable,  Madame,  that  you  still  hesitate," 
Rene  repeated,  insinuatingly. 

308 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Making  a  supreme  effort,  Gabrielle  rose  from  her  chair. 
She  felt  braver,  more  mistress  of  herself  standing  up. 
With  an  assumption  of  ease  and  indifference  she  but- 
toned her  coat  and  began  drawing  on  her  long 
gloves. 

"You  are  right,"  she  replied,  but  without  looking  at 
him.  "I  no  longer  hesitate.  You  have  made  your 
meaning  clear.  You  have  also  said  many  affecting  and 
poetic  things  to  me.  But,  as  you  will  be  the  first  to 
admit,  there  are  certain  filial  obligations  I  am  bound  to 
discharge,  and  to  discharge  personally.  My  beloved 
mother  has  been  my  companion  and  my  constant  care  for 
so  long,  that  it  is  imperative  I  should  go  with  Giovanni; 
and,  in  a  few  words,  tell  her  myself  of  the  decision  we 
have  arrived  at.  To  commit  the  communication  of  such 
news  to  a  servant,  however  excellent,  who  is  also  a 
stranger,  would  be  both  cruel  and  impertinent.  You, 
who  reverence  motherhood  so  deeply,  will  sympathize 
with  this  mother  from  whom  you  propose  to  take  away 
those  dearest  to  her." 

The  sobs  rose  in  Gabrielle's  throat.  But  she  swal- 
lowed them  courageously.  If  she  once  gave  way,  once 
lost  her  head — well — 

"Moreover,"  she  continued,  "unless  I  myself  go,  un- 
less I  myself  claim  her,  my  mother  will,  and  rightly, 
refuse  to  part  with  my  little  Bette." 

A  pause  followed,  during  which  the  young  man  ap- 
peared immersed  in  thought.  During  that  pause  a  faint 
sound  of  footsteps  seemed  to  reach  Gabrielle's  fear- 
quickened  hearing;  but  whether  from  the  common 
stairway,  the  fiat  underneath,  or  here,  nearer  at  hand,  she 
could  not  determine.  She  prayed  with  all  the  fervor  of 
her  spirit,  while  deftly,  daintily  smoothing  out  the  wrin- 
kles in  the  wrists  of  her  long  gloves. 

"  You  appreciate  the  force  of  that  which  I  say  regard- 
ing my  mother  and  my  little  Bette  ?"  She  asked,  glanc- 
ing at  him. 

309 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"I  do — most  incontestably,  I  do." 

The  answer  came  so  spontaneously  and  in  so  perfectly 
natural  a  tone  that  Gabrielle's  glance  steadied  upon  the 
speaker  in  swift  inquiry  and  hope.  Had  the  cloud  lifted, 
leaving  his  mind  clear,  permitting  an  interval  of  lucidity, 
of  reason  and  normal  thought  ? 

"Ah,  my  poor  friend,  then  all  is  well?"  she  cried,  a 
great  thankfulness  irradiating  her  face. 

"Perhaps,  yes,"  he  returned,  in  the  same  quiet  and 
natural  manner.  "Personally  I  should  have  preferred 
the  other  plan.  To  relinquish  it  disappoints  me.  All 
promised  so  well.  But  I  put  it  aside,  for  toward  Madame, 
your  mother,  I  am,  believe  me,  incapable  of  an  unsym- 
pathetic or  discourteous  act." 

Gabrielle  continued  her  little  preparations  for  de- 
parture. She  began  to  arrange  her  veil.  Raising  both 
hands,  she  drew  the  edge  of  it  forward  over  the  crown  of 
her  hat.  Later,  reaction  would  set  in.  Safe  in  her  own 
home,  she  would  break  down,  paying  in  physical  and 
mental  exhaustion  the  price  of  this  very  terrible  act  of 
charity.  But  just  now  she  felt  strong  and  elate  in  her 
thankfulness  for  answered  prayer  and  prospect  of  release. 
Never  had  family  affection,  the  love  of  friends,  all  the 
wholesome  sentiments  of  human  intercourse,  appeared  to 
her  so  delightful  or  so  good.  Delicate  color  tinged  her 
cheeks.  Kindness  and  pity  softened  her  golden-brown 
eyes.  Standing  there,  with  upraised  hands  and  gently 
smiling  lips,  her  beauty  was  very  noble,  full  of  soul  as 
well  as  of  victorious  health  and  youth. 

For  some  seconds  Rene*  Dax  gazed  at  her,  as  though 
fascinated,  studying  every  detail  of  her  appearance. 
Then,  once  more,  a  nickering  impishness  crossed  his  sad 
little  face.  He  went  down  on  one  knee,  laid  hold  of  the 
hem  of  her  dress,  and,  bowing  his  great  head  to  the 
ground,  kissed  and  again  kissed  it. 

"Accept  my  worship,  my  homage,  oh!  Madonna — 
Madonna  of  the  Future!"  he  said. 

310 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

He  sprang  upright,  clasping  his  little  hands  again,  the 
palms  turned  outward. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on  reflectively,  "honestly,  I  prefer 
the  other  plan.  Yet  this  one,  as  I  increasingly  perceive, 
possesses  merits.  Let  us  dwell  upon  them.  They  will 
console  us.  For,  after  all,  what  I  am  about  to 
carry  out  is,  also,  a  masterpiece — daring,  voluptuous, 
merciless,  at  once  lovely  and  hideous — and  conclusive. 
Yes,  amazingly  conclusive.  Unmitigated — just  that. 
It  will  set  the  public  imagination  on  fire.  All  Paris  will 
seethe  with  it.  All  Paris  which  can  gain  admittance  will 
rush,  fight,  trample,  to  obtain  a  look  at  it.  It  will 
represent  the  most  scathing  of  my  revenges  upon  the 
unfathomable  stupidity  of  mankind.  But  it  will  do 
more  than  that.  It  will  constitute  my  supreme  revenge 
upon  my  art.  Thus  I  sterilize  the  brazen  Moloch, 
rendering  him  voiceless,  eyeless,  handless,  denying  him 
all  means  of  self-expression.  In  myself  dying,  I  make 
him  worse  than  dead — though  he  still  exists.  Art,  being 
eternal,  necessarily  still  exists.  Yet  what  an  existence! 
I,  who  have  so  long  parted  company  with  laughter,  could 
almost  laugh!  Yes,  veritably  I  draw  his  teeth.  By 
depriving  him  of  my  assistance  as  interpreter,  by  de- 
priving him  of  the  vehicle  of  my  unrivaled  technique, 
I  annihilate  his  power.  Blind,  deaf,  maimed,  impotent, 
yes — yes — is  it  not  beyond  all  words  magnificent  ?  Let 
us  hasten,  Madame,  to  accomplish  this." 

Rene  had  delivered  himself  of  his  harangue  with  grow- 
ing indications  of  excitement,  his  voice  rising  finally 
to  a  scream.  Throughout  the  nerve- shattering  jar  and 
rush  of  it,  Madame  St.  Leger,  in  deepening  terror, 
listened  for  any  sound  of  delivering  footsteps — listened 
and  prayed.  Now  his  manner  changed,  became  cool, 
matter-of-fact,  rather  horribly  busy  and  business-like. 

"See,  Madame,"  he  said,  "the  divan  on  the  left  will 
certainly  be  the  most  suitable.  You  will  place  yourself 
at  the  farther  end  of  it.     There  are  plenty  of  cushions. — 

3" 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

When  Giovanni  has  filled  the  large  bronze  bowl — you 
see  which  I  mean — there  upon  the  ebony  pedestal?" 

He  pointed  with  one  hand.  With  the  other  he  laid 
hold  of  Madame  St.  Leger's  wrist,  the  hard,  short  fingers 
closing  down  like  the  teeth  of  a  steel  trap.  To  struggle 
was  useless.    Might  God  in  his  mercy  hear  and  send  help ! 

"When  Giovanni,  I  repeat,  has  filled  the  bowl  with 
warm  water — warm,  not  too  hot — and  set  it  upon  the 
center  of  the  divan — thus — I  will  instruct  him  to  draw 
the  screen  across,  concealing  us.  You  understand,  we 
shall  place  ourselves  on  either  side  of  the  bowl,  plung- 
ing our  arms  as  far  as  the  elbow  into  it.  The  warmth 
of  the  water  at  once  soothes  the  nerves  and  accelerates 
the  flow  of  blood. — Ah,  do  not  draw  back  from  me!" 
he  pleaded.  "Do  not  render  my  task  more  difficult. 
Obey  your  highest  instincts.  Be  perfect  in  grace  and 
in  beneficence  to  the  close.  The  pain  racks  my  head. 
Do  not  by  opposition  or  reluctance  oblige  me  to  concen- 
trate my  brain  upon  further  explanation  or  thought. — 
Consider  only  that  from  which  I  save  you.  The  degra- 
dation of  marriage,  of  the  embraces  of  a  lover — of  Adrian, 
my  old  schoolfellow — the  impious  assumption  of  the 
beast! — of  Adrian  Savage. — From  the  shame  of  old  age, 
too — from  the  anguish  of  tears  shed  beside  the  bed- 
side of,  possibly,  your  child,  your  little  Bette  —  of, 
certainly,  Madame,  your  mother!  And,  as  against  all 
these  tragedies,  to  what  does  the  other  amount  ?  I  give 
you  my  word  it  will  not  hurt.  You  will  barely  be  sensi- 
ble of  that  which  is  occurring. — The  merest  scratch. — 
In  my  student  days  I  obtained  bodies  from  the  hospitals. 
With  minute  and  faithful  accuracy  I  dissected  them  out. 
I  know  precisely  where  to  cut,  what  portion  of  the 
arteries  and  sinews  to  sever. — And  we  shall  sit  here  alone 
— alone — you  and  I,  behind  the  red  screen,  while  our 
veins  empty  themselves  of  their  red  liquor,  and  slowly, 
serenely  life  ebbs,  our  vision  growing  dim  and  yet 
more — " 

312 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"Help!"  Gabrielle  called  aloud.  "Help!" 
For  truly  the  sound  of  voices  and  of  footsteps  came 
at  last.  The  studio  door  was  thrown  open.  A  man 
entered.  Who  he  was  she  did  not  know;  but,  with  a 
strength  born  of  despair  and  of  hope,  she  wrenched 
herself  free  from  Rend  Dax's  grasp,  ran  across  the  big 
room,  flung  her  arms  round  the  man's  neck,  her  beau- 
tiful head  crushing  down  upon  his  breast,  while  her 
breath  rushed  out  in  great  strangled,  panting  cries: 
"Ah!"    And  again,  "Ah!     Ah!" 


CHAPTER   IV 

ON   THE    HEIGHTS 

ADRIAN  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  pavement  beside 
f\  his  well-appointed,  blue-black  automobile,  the  door 
of  which  the  chauffeur  held  open.  The  hinged  top  of 
the  limousine  was  folded  back,  and  the  sunshine,  slant- 
ing down  over  the  roofs  of  the  high,  white  houses  on  the 
right,  brought  the  pale,  gray-clad  figure  of  its  occupant 
into  charming  relief  as  against  the  oatmeal-colored  up- 
holstering of  the  inside  of  the  car  in  tones  at  once  blend- 
ing and  standing  finely  apart.  An  itinerant  flower- 
seller,  bareheaded,  short-skirted,  trimly  shod,  her  flat, 
wicker  tray  heaped  up  with  vivid  blossoms,  held  out  a 
graceful  bunch  of  crimson  and  yellow  roses,  with  the 
smiling  suggestion  that — "Monsieur  should  assuredly 
present  them  to  Madame,  who  could  not  fail  to  revel  in 
their  ravishing  odor."  Monsieur,  however,  showed  him- 
self unflatteringly  ignorant  of  her  presence,  while  Martin, 
the  chauffeur,  dissembling  his  natural  inclination  toward 
every  member  of  the  sex,  motioned  her  away  with,  so 
to  speak,  a  front  of  adamant. 

Adrian  put  one  foot  on  the  step  of  the  car,  and  there 
paused,  hesitating.  At  last,  with  a  point  of  eagerness 
piercing  his  constraint,  he  said: 

"  Instead  of  going  directly  to  the  Quai  Malaquais,  will 
you  permit  me  to  take  you  for  a  short,  a  quiet  drive, 
Madame?     The  air  may  refresh  you." 

"I  shall  be  grateful,"  Gabrielle  replied,  briefly  and 
hoarsely. 

Adrian  delivered  himself  of  rapid,  emphatic  directions 
3i4 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

to  his  chauffeur,  swung  into  the  car,  and  placed  himself 
beside  her,  arranging  the  thin  dust-rug  carefully  over 
the  skirt  of  her  dress.  Then,  his  nostrils  quivering 
slightly,  his  face  noticeably  drawn  and  set,  he  leaned 
back  in  his  corner  of  the  luxurious  vehicle.  Martin 
slipped  in  behind  the  steering-wheel;  and  with  a  pre- 
liminary snarl  and  rattling  vibration,  gaining  silence 
and  smoothness  as  it  made  the  pace,  the  car  headed 
up  the  glittering  perspective  of  the  wide,  tree-bordered 
street. 

Somewhere  in  the  back  of  his  consciousness,  when  he 
had  bought  this  car  a  few  weeks  prior  to  his  last  visit 
to  Stourmouth,  there  floated  entrancing  visions  of 
circumstances  such  as  the  present.  At  that  time  his 
affair  of  the  heart  promised  lamentably  ill,  and  realiza- 
tion of  such  visions  appeared  both  highly  improbable 
and  most  wearifully  distant.  Now  a  wholly  unexpected 
turn  of  events  had  converted  them  into  actual  fact. 
Through  the  delight  of  the  brilliant  summer  afternoon, 
the  caressing  wind,  and  clear,  brave  sunlight  he  bore 
Gabrielle  St.  Leger  away  whither  he  would.  Verily 
he  had  his  desire,  but  leanness  withal  in  his  soul.  For, 
God  in  heaven!  what  a  question  squatted  there  upon 
the  biscuit-colored  seat,  interposing  its  hateful  presence 
between  them,  poisoning  his  mind  with  an  anguish  of 
suspense  and  doubt! 

He  was  still,  even  physically,  under  the  dominion  of 
the  almost  incredible  scene  in  which  he  had  recently 
taken  part.  He  had  carried  rather  than  led  Madame 
St.  Leger  down  the  five  flights  of  stairs  from  Rene"  Dax's 
flat,  and  had  just  only  not  required  the  help  of  the 
chauffeur  to  lift  her  into  the  waiting  car.  His  heart 
still  thumped,  sledge-hammer  fashion,  against  his  ribs. 
Every  muscle  was  strained  and  taut.  Not  his  eyes  only, 
but  the  whole  temper  and  spirit  of  him,  were  still  hot  with 
desire  of  vengeance.  That  loud,  hardly  human  cry  of 
Gabrielle's  as,  lost  to  all  dignity,  lost  almost  to  all  mod- 
21  3i5 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

esty,  she  flung  herself  upon  him  still  rang  in  his  ears. 
The  primitive  savagery  of  it  coming  from  the  lips  of  so 
fastidious,  elusive,  quick-witted  a  creature,  from  those  of 
so  artistic  a  product  of  our  complicated  modern  civiliza- 
tion, at  once  horrified  and  filled  him  with  vicarious  shame. 
In  that  wild  moment  of  impact  the  dormant  violence  of 
the  young  man's  passion  had  been  aroused.  Yet  a  gross 
and  cynical  query  was  scrawled  across  his  remembrance 
of  it  all.  For  what  could,  in  point  of  fact,  have  hap- 
pened previous  to  his  arrival  to  produce  so  amazing 
a  result? 

And  to  Adrian  not  the  least  cruel  part  of  this  business 
was  the  duty,  so  clearly  laid  upon  him,  of  rigid  self- 
restraint,  of  maintaining,  for  her  protection,  as  sparing 
and  shielding  her,  his  ordinary  air  of  courteous,  unaccen- 
tuated  and  friendly  intercourse.  Good  breeding  and  fine 
feeling  alike  condemned  him  to  behave  just  as  usual,  not 
assuming  by  so  much  as  a  hair's  breadth  that  closer 
intimacy  which  the  events  of  the  last  half-hour  might 
very  reasonably  justify.  Unless  she  herself  chose  to 
speak,  this  whole  astounding  episode  must  remain  as 
though  it  never  had  been  and  was  not. — And  here  his 
lover's  and  artist's  imagination  crimped  him,  projecting 
torments  of  unsatisfied  conjecture  extending  throughout 
the  unending  cycles  of  eternity.  Yet  in  uncomplaining 
endurance  of  such  torment,  as  he  perceived,  must  the 
perfection  of  his  attitude  toward  her  declare  itself,  must 
the  perfection  of  his  loyalty  come  in. 

Meanwhile  as  the  car  hummed  along  the  upward- 
trending  avenues  toward  the  southern  heights,  leaving 
the  more  fashionable  and  populous  districts  of  the  city 
behind,  the  air  grew  lighter  and  the  breeze  more  lively. 
Adrian,  still  sitting  tight  in  his  corner,  trusted  himself  to 
look  at  his  companion.  Through  the  fluttering  gray 
veil,  as  through  some  tenuous,  drifting  mist,  he  saw  her 
proud,  delicate  profile.  Saw  also  that  though  she  re- 
mained apparently  passive  and  strove  to  hold  all  out- 

316 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

ward  signs  of  emotion  in  check,  the  tears  ran  slowly 
down  her  cheek,  while  the  rounded  corner  of  her  usu- 
ally enigmatic,  smiling  mouth  trembled  nervously  and 
drooped. 

Presently,  as  he  still  watched,  she  slipped  the  chain  of 
her  gold  and  gray  vanity-bag  off  her  wrist  and  essayed 
to  open  it.  But  her  fingers  fumbled  ineffectually  with 
the  gilt  snap.  The  beautiful,  capable  hands  he  so  fondly 
loved  shook,  having  suddenly  grown  weak.  Tears 
came  into  Adrian's  eyes  also.  To  him  the  helplessness 
of  those  dear  hands  stood  for  so  very  much.  Silently  he 
took  the  little  bag,  opened  and  held  it,  while  she  pulled 
out  a  lace-bordered  handkerchief,  and,  pushing  it  be- 
neath the  fluttering  veil,  wiped  her  wet  eyes  and  wet 
cheeks.  He  kept  the  bag  open,  waiting  for  her  to  put  the 
handkerchief  back.  But,  without  speaking,  Gabrielle 
shook  her  head  slightly,  in  token  that  further  drying 
operations  might  not  improbably  shortly  be  required. 
Adrian  obediently  snapped  to  the  gold  catch;  yet,  since 
he  really  shut  up  such  a  very  big  slice  of  his  own  heart 
within  it,  was  it  not,  after  all,  but  natural  and  legitimate 
that  he  should  retain  possession  of  the  little  bag  ? 

This  trifle  of  service  rendered  and  accepted  bore  fruit, 
bringing  the  two  into  a  more  normal  relation  and  lessen- 
ing the  tension  of  their  mutual  constraint.  After  a  while 
Gabrielle  spoke,  but  low  and  hoarsely,  her  throat  still 
strained  by  those  hardly  human  cries.  Adrian  found 
himself  obliged  to  draw  nearer  to  her  if  he  would  catch 
her  words  amid  the  clatter  of  the  street  and  humming  of 
the  engines  of  the  car. 

"There  is  that,  I  feel,  I  should  without  delay  make 
you  know,"  she  said,  speaking  in  English;  for  it  comes 
easier,  sometimes,  to  clothe  the  telling  of  ugly  and  diffi- 
cult things  with  the  circumscriptions  of  a  foreign  lan- 
guage. 

"Yes?"  Adrian  put  in,  as  she  paused. 

"You  should  know  that  he  is  insane.  Possibly  my 
3i7 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

visiting  him  contributed  to  precipitate  the  crisis.  I  do 
not  know.  But  he  is  now  no  longer  responsible.  There- 
fore truly  I  commiserate  rather  than  feel  anger  toward 

him." 

Again  the  handkerchief  went  up  under  the  fluttering 
veil.  Again,  when  it  was  withdrawn,  Adrian  saw,  as 
through  thin,  drifting  mist,  the  proud,  delicate  profile. 

"I  should  make  you  know,"  she  went  on,  resolutely, 
"it  was  my  life — yes,  my  life — but  my  honor,  no — never 
— which  was  in  jeopardy." 

"Thank  God!  thank  God  for  that!"  the  young  man 
almost  groaned,  bowing  himself  together,  while  his 
grasp  tightened  upon  the  pretty  little  gold  and  gray 
bag  almost  mercilessly. 

He  sat  upright,  took  a  deep  breath,  staring  with  un- 
seeing eyes  at  the  bright,  variegated  prospect  of  shops, 
houses,  trees,  traffic,  people  scampering  past  on  either 
side  the  rushing  car.  Only  now  did  he  begin  to  gauge 
the  vital  character  of  his  recent  misery,  and  the  tre- 
mendous force  of  the  love  which  in  so  happily  con- 
stituted and  circumstanced  a  man  as  himself  could 
render  such  a  misery  possible.  Until  to-day,  until,  in- 
deed, this  thrice-blessed  minute  when  he  learned  from 
her  own  lips  that  no  shame  sullied  her,  he  had  never 
really  gauged  the  depth  of  his  love  for  Gabrielle  St. 
Leger,  or  quite  realized  how  all  the  many  ambitions,  in- 
terests, satisfactions  of  his  very  agreeable  existence  were 
as  so  much  dust,  froth,  garbage,  burnt-out  cinder  in  com- 
parison to  that  love.  He  had  told  Anastasia  Beau- 
champ,  in  the  course  of  a  certain  memorable  conversa- 
tion, he  would  devote  his  life  to  that  love.  But,  he 
now  discovered,  it  was  quite  unnecessary  that  he  should 
take  active  steps  toward  the  production  or  maintenance 
of  it,  since  his  life  was  already  almost  alarmingly  de- 
voted, leaving  room,  in  truth,  as  he  now  perceived, 
for  nothing  outside  that  same  love.  And  thereupon — 
the  balance  essaying  to  right  itself,  as  in  sane,  healthy 

3*8 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

natures  it  instinctively  must  and  will — poor  Joanna 
Smyrthwaite's  face,  and  its  expression  of  semi-idiot 
ecstasy,  as  he  had  seen  it  only  two  nights  ago  at  the 
Tower  House  on  the  gallery  in  the  checkered  moonlight, 
arose  before  him.  Adrian  was  conscious  of  pulling  him- 
self together  sharply. — Love — if  you  will — and  with  all 
the  strength,  all  the  vigor  of  his  nature.  But  to  dote  ? 
Devil  take  the  notion — no  thank  you!  Never,  if  he 
knew  it,  would  he  dote. 

Wherefore,  it  followed  that  his  wits  were  very  thor- 
oughly, if  very  tenderly,  about  him  when  next  Gabrielle 
St.  Leger  spoke. 

"I  see  now,"  she  said,  "the  method  by  which  he 
proposed  we — he  and  myself — should  die  amounted  to 
an  absurdity,  since  it  involved  the  concurrence  of  his 
servant." 

Covered  by  the  noise  of  the  car,  Adrian  permitted 
himself  the  relief  of  cursing  a  little  quietly  under  his 
breath. 

"But  at  the  time  I  could  not  reason.  I  found  myself 
too  confused  and  terrified  by  the  extraordinary  and 
horrible  things  he  told  me — things  in  themselves  de- 
mented, extravagant,  yet  as  he  told  them  so  apparently 
sensible.  His  poor,  disordered  brain  was  so  fertile  in 
expedients  that  from  moment  to  moment  I  could  not 
foresee  what  fresh  unnatural  demand  he  might  make 
on  me,  what  new  scheme  he  might  not  devise  for  my 
destruction." 

"Alone  with  a  maniac  no  degree  of  fear  can  be  ex- 
cessive," Adrian  asserted,  warmly. 

For  he  perceived  her  pride  was  touched,  so  that  her 
self-esteem  called  for  support  and  encouragement.  To 
his  hearing  her  words  conveyed  a  rather  pathetic  hint  of 
apology,  both  to  herself  and  to  him,  for  that  moment 
of  wild  self-abandonment. 

"It  doesn't  require  much  imagination,"  he  went  on, 
"to  understand  the  danger  you  ran  was  appalling — in 

3*9 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

everyway  appalling — simply  that.  And,  good  heavens! 
why  didn't  I  know?"  be  broke  out,  slapping  his  two 
hands  down  on  his  knees  in  sudden  fury.  "Why  didn't 
my  instinct  warn  me,  thick-headed  fool  that  I  am? 
Why  didn't  I  get  to  that  hateful  carrion-bird's  roost  of 
a  studio  an  hour,  half  an  hour  earlier  ?  Pardon  me,  dear 
Madame,"  he  added,  moderating  his  transports,  "if  I 
shock  you  by  my  violence.  But  when  I  consider  what 
you  must  have  endured,  when  I  picture  what  might  have 
happened,  I  confess  I  am  almost  beside  myself  with 
rage  and  distress." 

La  belle  Gabrielle  had  turned  her  head.  She  looked 
straight  at  him.  The  timid  ghost  of  her  mysterious, 
finely  malicious  smile  visited  her  lips.  Yet  seen 
through  the  mist  of  her  fluttering  veil  her  eyes  were 
singularly  soft  and  lovely,  wistful — so,  at  least,  it  seemed 
to  Adrian — with  the  dawning  of  a  sentiment  other  than 
that  of  bare  friendship.  Whereupon  the  young  man's 
heart  began  to  thump  against  his  ribs  again,  while  the 
engines  of  the  car  broke  into  a  most  marvelous  sweet 
singing. 

"I  am  not  sure,"  she  commenced,  speaking  with  en- 
gaging hesitation,  "whether,  perhaps,  since  I  am,  thanks 
to  le  bon  Dieu,  here  in  safety  and  about  to  return  unhurt 
to  my  child  and  my  mother,  it  is  not  well  I  should 
have  had  this  trial.  For  you  did  come  in  time — yes, 
mercifully  in  time.  I  doubt  if  I  could  have  endured 
much  longer.  There  were  other  things,"  she  went  on, 
hurriedly,  "besides  those  which  I  consciously  heard  or 
saw  which  combined  to  disgust  and  terrify  me.  You, 
too,  believe,  do  you  not,  that  thoughts  may  acquire  a 
separate  existence — thoughts,  purposes,  imaginations — 
and  that  they  may  inhabit  particular  places  ?  I  cannot 
explain,  but  by  such  things  I  believe  myself  to  be  sur- 
rounded. I  felt  they  might  break  through  whatever 
restraining  medium  withheld  them,  and  become  vis- 
ible.    A  little  longer  and  my  reason,  too,  might  have 

320 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

given  way — "  She  paused.  "But  you  came — you 
came — " 

"Yes,  I  came,"  Adrian  repeated  quietly. 

"And,  that  being  so — I  being  mercifully  spared  the 
worst,  being  unhurt,  I  mean — " 

"Yes,  precisely — unhurt,"  he  repeated  with  praise- 
worthy docility. 

"This  experience  may  be  of  value.  It  may  help  to 
make  me  revise  some  mistaken  ideas" — she  turned 
away,  and,  though  her  head  was  held  high,  tears,  as 
Adrian  noted,  were  again  somewhat  in  evidence — "some 
perhaps  foolishly  self-willed  and — how  shall  I  say  ? — con- 
ceited opinions." 

In  the  last  few  minutes  the  car  had  traversed  one  of 
those  unkempt  and,  in  a  sense,  nomadic  districts  com- 
mon to  the  fringe  of  all  great  cities.  Spaces  of  waste 
land,  littered  with  nondescript  rubbish  and  materials 
for  new  buildings  in  course  of  noisy  construction,  alter- 
nated with  rows  of  low-class  houses,  off  the  walls  of 
which  the  plaster  cracked  and  scaled;  with  long  lines  of 
hoardings  displaying  liberal  assortment  of  naming 
posters;  wine-shops  at  once  shabby  and  showy,  crude 
reds,  greens,  and  yellows  adorning  their  wooden  bal- 
conies and  striped,  flapping  awnings;  gaudy-fronted 
dancing-booths  and  shooting-galleries  tailing  away  at 
the  back  into  neglected  weed-grown  gardens.  All  these, 
with  a  sparse  population,  male  and  female,  very  much 
to  match ;  while  here  and  there  some  solitary  shuttered 
dwelling  standing  back  from  the  wide  avenue  in  an  in- 
closed plot  of  ground  betrayed  a  countenance  suggestive 
of  disquieting  adventures. 

As  Madame  St.  Leger  finished  making  her,  to  Adrian, 
very  touching  confession,  the  automobile,  quitting 
these  doubtful  purlieus — which,  however,  thanks  to  a 
charm  of  early  summer  foliage  and  generous  breadth  of 
sunshine,  took  on  an  air  of  jovial  devil-may-care  vaga- 
bondage, inspiriting  rather  than  objectionable— headed 

321 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

eastward,  along  the  boulevard  skirting  the  grass-grown 
slopes  and  mounds  of  the  dismantled  fortifications,  and 
drew  up  opposite  the  entrance  to  the  Pare  de  Mont- 
souris.  Here,  Adrian  proposed  they  should  alight  and 
stroll  in  the  tree-shaded  alleys,  as  a  relief  from  the  dust 
and  noise  of  the  streets. 

But  once  on  her  feet,  Gabrielle  discovered  how  very 
tired  she  still  was,  weak-kneed  and  tremulous  to  the 
point  of  gladly  accepting  the  support  of  her  companion's 
arm.  This  renewed  contact,  though  of  a  comparatively 
perfunctory  and  unofficial  character,  proved  by  no  means 
displeasing  to  Adrian.  In  truth  it  gave  him  such  a 
lively  sense  of  happiness,  that  to  his  dying  day  he  will 
cherish  a  romantic  affection  for  those  remote  and  un- 
fashionable pleasure-grounds  upon  the  southern  heights. 
Happiness  is  really  the  simplest  of  God's  creatures — 
easily  gratified,  large  in  charity,  hospitable  to  all  the 
minor  poetry  of  life.  Whence  it  came  about  that  this 
critical,  traveled,  shrewd,  and  smart  young  gentleman 
had  never,  surely,  beheld  trees  so  green,  flower-borders 
so  radiant,  walks  so  smooth  and  well-swept,  statues  so 
noble,  cascades  so  musical,  lakes  so  limpid  and  so  truth- 
fully mirroring  the  limpid  heavens  above.  Even  the 
rococo  and  slightly  ridiculous  reproduction  of  the  Palace 
of  the  Bey  of  Tunis,  now  used  as  an  observatory,  which 
crowns  the  highest  ground,  its  domes,  cupolas,  somberly 
painted  mural  surfaces,  peacock-blue  encaustic  tiles,  and 
rows  of  horseshoe-headed  Moorish  arches — looking  in 
its  modern  Western  surroundings  about  as  congruous  as 
a  camel  in  a  cabbage  -  patch  —  presented  itself  to  his 
happy  eyes  with  all  the  allurements  of  some  genii-and- 
gem-built  palace  from  out  the  immortal  pages  of  the 
Arabian  Nights.  Gabrielle  St.  Leger's  hand  rested  upon 
his  arm,  her  feet  kept  step  with  his  feet.  The  folds  of  her 
dainty  gown  swept  lightly  against  him  as  he  walked. 
Past  and  future  fell  out  of  the  reckoning.  Nothing  ob- 
tained save  the  beatified  present,  while  his  heart  and 

3*2 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

his  senses  were,  at  once,  sharply  hungry  and  exquisitely 
at  peace. 

The  grounds  were  practically  deserted.  Only  a  few 
employees  from  the  observatory,  blue-habited  gardeners, 
a  batch  of  Cook's  tourists — English  and  American — 
weary  with  sight-seeing,  and  some  respectable  French 
fathers  of  families,  imparting,  al  fresco,  instruction  in 
local  natural  science,  topography  and  art,  to  their 
progeny,  were  at  hand  to  greet  the  passing  couple  with 
starings,  sympathetic,  self-consicous,  or  envious,  as  the 
case  might  be.  Among  the  first  ranked  the  French 
fathers  of  families,  who  paused  in  frank  admiration  and 
interest. 

"For  was  not  the  lady  arrestingly  elegant  ? — Sapristi! 
if  ever  a  young  man  had  luck!  Yet,  after  all,  why  not? 
For  he,  too,  repaid  observation.  Truly  a  handsome 
fellow,  and  of  a  type  of  male  beauty  eminently  Gallic — 
refined  yet  virile;  perfectly  distinguished,  moreover,  in 
manner  and  in  dress.  She  appeared  languid.  Well, 
what  more  easily  comprehensible,  since — a  marriage  of 
inclination,  without  doubt — " 

Whereupon,  in  the  intervals  of  anxiously  retrieving 
some  strayed  all  too  adventurous  Mimi  or  Toto,  the 
fond  parental  being  beheld,  in  prophetic  vision,  Adrian 
the  Magnificent  also  shepherding  a  delicious  little 
human  flock. 

"How  did  you  know,  or  was  it  by  chance  that  you 
came?"  Gabrielle  presently  inquired. 

And,  in  reply,  Adrian  explained  that,  the  affairs  of  the 
Smyrthwaite  inheritance  being  completed  sooner  than  he 
anticipated,  he  had  advanced  his  return — Ah!  shade, 
accusing  shade,  of  Joanna !  But  with  la  belle  Gabrielle' s 
hand  resting  confidingly  upon  his  arm,  he  could  hardly 
be  expected  to  turn  aside  to  appease  that  unhappy 
phantom. 

"Unfortunately  I  missed  the  connection  in  London, 
and  failed  to  catch  the  midday  Channel  boat.     Conse- 

323 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

quently  I  only  reached  Paris  early  this  morning.  I  had 
passed  two  practically  sleepless  nights  " —  again  accusing 
shade  of  Joanna,  sound  of  footsteps,  and  dragging  of 
draperies  upon  the  corridor  outside  his  bedroom  door ! — 
"To  my  shame,"  he  continued,  "I  made  up  for  my 
broken  rest  to-day.  It  was  already  past  three  o'clock 
when  I  went  to  my  office.  I  had  omitted  to  warn  my 
people  there  of  my  return.  Picture  then,  chere  Madame, 
my  emotion  when  my  secretary  handed  me  a  letter  from 
our  friend  Miss  Beauchamp!" 

"So  it  was  Anastasia,"  Madame  St.  Leger  murmured; 
but  whether  resentfully  or  gratefully  her  hearer  failed 
to  determine. 

"I  flung  myself  into  the  automobile — and — enfin — 
you  know  the  rest." 

"  Yes,"  she  agreed,  "  I  know  the  rest." 

And,  thereupon,  she  gave  a  little  cry  of  astonishment. 

For,  turning  the  eastern  side  of  the  would-be  Moorish 
palace  and  passing  on  to  the  terrace  in  front  of  it,  the 
whole  of  Paris  was  disclosed  to  view  outspread  below 
along  the  valley  of  the  Seine.  In  intermingling,  finely 
gradated  tones,  blond  and  silver,  the  immense  pano- 
rama presented  itself;  squares,  gardens,  monuments, 
world-famous  streets  and  world-famous  buildings  seen 
in  the  splendid  clarity  of  the  sun-penetrated  atmosphere, 
purple-stained  here  and  there  by  the  shadows  of  detached 
high-sailing  clouds.  Upon  the  opposite  height,  crown- 
ing Montmartre,  the  Church  of  the  Sacre  Coeur  rose 
ivory-white,  its  dome  and  clock-tower  seeming  strangely 
adjacent  to  the  vast  blue  arch  of  the  summer  sky;  while, 
in  the  extreme  distance  both  to  right  and  left,  beyond 
the  precincts  of  the  laughing  city,  a  gray,  angular  grim- 
ness  of  outlying  forts  struck  the  vibrant  and  masculine 
note  of  the  peril  of  war. 

For  quite  a  sensible  period  of  time  Gabrielle  St.  Leger 
gazed  at  the  scene  in  silence.  Then  she  took  her  hand 
from  Adrian's  arm  and  moved  a  step  away.     But  he 

324 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

could  not  quarrel  with  this,  since  she  put  up  her  veil  and 
looked  frankly  yet  wistfully  at  him,  a  great  sweetness  in 
her  charming  face. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  stretching  out  her  hand  with  a  gesture 
of  welcome  to  the  noble  view,  "this  is  a  thing  to  do  one 
good,  to  renew  one's  courage,  one's  sanity  and  hope. 
I  am  grateful  to  you.  It  was  both  wise  and  kind  of  you 
to  bring  me  here  and  show  me  this.  By  so  doing  you 
have  washed  my  mind  of  dark  and  sinister  impressions. 
You  have  made  me  once  more  in  love  with  the  goodness 
of  God,  in  love  with  life.  But  come,"  she  added, 
quickly,  almost  shyly,  "I  must  ask  you  to  take  me  home 
to  the  Quai  Malaquais.  I  can  meet  my  mother  and  child 
now  without  betraying  emotion — without  letting  them 
suspect  the  grave  and  terrible  trial  through  which  I  have 
passed." 

And  upon  this  speech  Adrian  Savage,  being  an  astute 
and  politic  lover,  offered  no  comment.  He  had  gained 
so  much  to-day  that  he  could  afford  to  be  patient,  mak- 
ing no  attempt  to  press  his  point.  Restraining  his 
natural  impetuosity,  he  rested  in  the  happiness  of  the 
present  and  spoke  no  word  of  love.  Only  his  eyes,  per- 
haps, gave  him  away  just  a  little;  and,  undoubtedly, 
on  the  return  journey  in  the  merrily  singing  car  he  per- 
mitted himself  to  sit  a  little  closer  to  la  belle  Gabrielle 
than  on  the  journey  out. 

At  the  foot  of  the  shining,  waxed,  wooden  staircase 
within  the  doorway  at  the  corner  of  the  courtyard, 
where,  backed  by  her  bodyguard  of  spindly  planes  and 
poplars,  the  lichen-stained  nymph  still  poured  the  con- 
tents of  her  tilted  pitcher  into  the  shell-shaped  basin 
below,  Adrian  left  Madame  St.  Leger. 

"No,  I  will  not  come  farther,  chere  Madame  et  amie" 
he  said,  his  air  at  once  gallant  and  tender,  standing  be- 
fore her,  hat  in  hand.  "  It  will  perhaps  be  easier,  in  face 
of  the  pious  fraud  you  propose  to  practise  upon  Madame, 
your  mother,  that  you  should  meet  her  alone." 

325 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

He  backed  away.  It  was  safer.  Farewells  are 
treacherous.  All  had  been  perfect  so  far.  He  would 
give  himself  no  chance  of  occasion  for  regret. 

"Mount  the  stairs  slowly,  though,  dear  Madame," 
he  called  after  her,  moved  by  sudden  anxiety.  "Re- 
member your  recent  fatigue — they  are  steep." 

Then,  the  beloved  gray  gown  and  floating  gray  veil 
having  passed  upward  out  of  sight,  he  turned  and  went. 

"And  now  for  that  poor,  unhappy  little  devil  of  a 
Tadpole,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  V 


DE    PROFUN'DIS 


"  JUST  now  he  is  quieter.  I  have  a  hope  that  he 
J  sleeps.  But,  per  Bacco,  Monsieur,  what  a  month, 
what  a  six  weeks  since  I  had  the  honor  of  speaking  with 
you  last !  My  poor  master  all  the  while  going  from  bad 
to  worse,  becoming  more  exacting,  more  eccentric  in  his 
habits,  showing  tendencies  toward  cruelty  quite  foreign 
to  his  nature.  And  to-day,  what  a  scene  after  you  left! 
I  had  been  on  the  alert  all  the  afternoon,  since  he  dis- 
played signs  of  febrile  excitement.  I  remained  here,  in 
the  passage,  not  far  from  the  door,  prepared,  notwith- 
standing his  violent  prohibition,  to  enter  the  studio 
should  any  sound  of  a  disturbing  character  reach  me. 
But  his  voice  appeared  calm.  I  trusted  the  visit  of  the 
Signora — ah,  Dio  miol  what  charm,  what  divine  grace! 
— was  producing  a  beneficial  effect,  soothing  and  pacify- 
ing my  poor  master.  Upon  my  honor,  I  declare  to  you 
it  was  only  at  the  actual  moment  of  my  admitting  you 
those  heartrending  cries  for  help  arose.  Then,  after- 
ward, pouring  forth  words  which  made  even  my  ears 
tingle,  hardened  old  reprobate — the  saints  forgive  me! 
— though  I  am,  he  rushed  upon  the  drawing  of  the 
Signora,  which  has  been  a  glorious  adornment  of  our  stu- 
dio for  so  long,  tore  it  from  the  easel  and  reduced  it  to  a 
thousand  fragments,  which — since  I  have  not  yet  dared 
to  remove  them — Monsieur  will  still  find  scattered  upon 
the  carpet.  This  work  of  destruction  had  the  effect  of 
appeasing  his  fury.     He  flung  himself  among  the  pillows 

327 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

of  the  divan,  and  has  remained  there  ever  since  in  a 
silence  which  justifies  the  hope  that  he  sleeps." 

The  spare,  bright-eyed,  velvet-spoken  Giovanni  folded 
his  hands  as  in  prayer. 

"  Monsieur  will  take  command,  he  will  intervene  to  help 
us?  Otherwise  a  catastrophe  may  ensue,  and  the  unri- 
valed genius  of  my  poor  master  may  be  lost  to  the  world." 

As  Adrian  crossed  the  dusky  studio  in  the  now 
fading  light  Rene*  Dax  moved  among  the  cushions  and 
raised  himself  on  his  elbow. 

"Mon  vieux,  is  that  you?"  he  asked  feebly.  "They 
told  me — they — it  does  not  matter  who — some  one  told 
me  you  had  come  back.  I  am  glad,  for  I  need  attention. 
I  apprehend  some  lesion  of  the  brain.  My  memory  plays 
me  false.  This  causes  inconveniences.  Something 
here,  at  the  base  of  my  skull,  seems  to  have  given  way, 
to  have  snapped.  I  think  it  would  be  well  that  I  should 
leave  Paris  for  a  time,  and  take  a  cure  of  some  descrip- 
tion. It  is  not  pretty" — he  looked  up  at  Adrian  with 
a  child-like  candor  wholly  disarming — "no,  very  cer- 
tainly it  is  a  far  from  pretty  request,  but  I  shall  be  in- 
debted to  you  if  you  will  make  it  your  business  to 
discover  a  private  hospital  for  the  insane — a  civilized 
one,  mind  you — where  I  can  be  accommodated  with  a 
comfortable  suite  of  rooms.  I  have  money  enough. 
My  illustrations  to  the  Contes  Drolatiques  will  pay  for 
this  agreeable  little  jaunt.  But  civilized,  I  repeat, 
where  no  objection  will  be  made  to  receiving  well- 
conducted  domestic  animals,  since  I  shall  require  to 
take  both  Giovanni  with  me  and  Aristides  the  Just." 

Adrian  sat  down  upon  the  divan.  His  speech  was 
somewhat  thick  and  broken  as  he  answered. 

"  Yes,  mon  petit.  Rest  content  that  I  will  do  my  very 
best  to  find  you  such  a  place  as  you  want." 

"  And  you  will  come  often  to  visit  me  ?" 

"Indeed,  I  will  come  very  constantly  to  visit  you," 
Adrian  said. 

328 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Rene  Dax  raised  himself  higher  and  looked  long  and 
searchingly  at  his  friend  from  head  to  foot.  The  red 
lamp  began  to  glow  behind  his  somber  eyes  again. 

"You  do  not  possess  one-tenth  of  my  talent,"  he  de- 
clared ;  "but  you  possess  ten  times  my  physique.  There- 
fore you  will  obtain.  You  will  prosper.  You  will  lie 
soft.  From  the  most  fastidious  to  the  vilest  all  women 
are  the  same.  The  Moslems  are  right.  Women  have 
neither  soul  nor  intellect,  only  bodies,  bodies,  bodies.  All 
they  want  in  a  man  is  physique." 

His  tone  changed  to  a  wheedling  one.  He  crawled 
over  the  soft,  black  silk  cushions  and  put  his  arm  coax- 
ingly  about  Adrian's  neck. 

"See,  mon  vieux,  see,  be  amiable!  Do  not  loiter. 
Come  at  once.  Let  us  search  together  diligently  every 
corner,  every  nook.  To  recover  it  would  fill  me  with 
rapture;  and  there  is  still  time  before  the  school-bell 
rings  for  class.  Come.  Help  me  to  find  my  lost  laugh- 
ter," he  said. 

And  at  that  moment,  with  a  startling  emotion  of  hope 
and  of  relief,  Adrian  observed,  for  the  first  time,  that 
the  infamous  drawings  upon  the  walls  had  been  painted 
out,  leaving  the  whole,  from  floor  to  ceiling,  white. 


V 
THE   LIVING   AND   THE   DEAD 


CHAPTER  I 

SOME    PASSAGES    FROM    JOANNA    SMYRTHWAITE's 
LOCKED    BOOK 

THE  drought  was  slow  in  breaking.  Day  after  day 
ragged-headed  thunder  pillars  boiled  up  along  the 
southeastern  horizon;  and,  drifting  northward,  inland, 
in  portentous  procession  as  the  afternoon  advanced, 
massed  themselves  as  a  mighty  mountain  range  against 
the  sulky  blue  of  the  upper  sky.  About  their  flanks, 
later,  sheet  lightning  streaked  and  quivered,  making  the 
hot  night  unrestful,  as  with  the  winking  of  malevolent 
and  monstrous  eyes. 

Owing  to  the  lie  of  the  land  and  the  encircling  trees, 
this  aerial  drama  was  not  visible  from  the  Tower  House. 
But  the  atmospheric  pressure,  and  nervous  tension 
produced  by  it,  very  sensibly  invaded  the  great  wood- 
land. The  French  window  of  Joanna  Smyrthwaite's 
bedroom  stood  wide  open  on  to  the  balcony.  She 
had  drawn  an  easy-chair  close  up  to  it,  and,  dressed 
in  her  white  woolen  neglige,  sat  there  in  the  half-dark. 
She  left  the  n£glig$  unfastened  at  the  neck,  it  being  an 
unsuitably  warm  garment  to  wear  on  so  hot  a  night. 
She  was  aware  it  caused  her  discomfort;  despite  which 
she  wore  it.  The  pristine  freshness  of  it  was  passed.  It 
was  slightly  soiled,  and  the  knife-pleatings,  losing  their 
sharpness  of  edge,  sagged  irregularly  in  places,  like  the 
bellows  of  an  old  concertina.  More  than  once  Mrs. 
Isherwood  had  declared,  "Miss  Joanna  ought  to  buy 
herself  a  new  wrapper,  or  at  any  rate  let  this  poor  old 
object  go  to  the  cleaners'."  But  Joanna  refused,  almost 
angrily,  to  part  with  it  even  for  a  week.     She  gave  no 

333 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

reason  for  her  refusal,  but  locked  the  insulted  garment 
away  in  a  drawer  of  her  wardrobe,  whence  she  extracted 
it  with  jealous  tenderness  after  Isherwood  had  left 
her  at  night.  Then  she  wore  it,  if  but  for  half  an  hour; 
and,  wearing  it,  she  brooded,  fondling  her  right  hand, 
which,  upon  two  occasions,  Adrian  Savage  had  kissed. 

At  the  opposite  end  of  the  lawn,  in  front  of  the  tennis 
pavilion,  figures  sauntered  to  and  fro  and  voices  were 
raised  in  desultory  talk.  Amy  Woodford  giggled.  The 
elder  Busbridge  boy  whistled  "  Yip-i-addy,"  and,  losing 
his  breath,  coughed.  The  odor  of  cigarettes  mingled 
with  that  of  the  trumpet-honeysuckle  and  jasmine  en- 
circling the  pillars  of  the  veranda  below  the  window. 
Joanna  neither  looked  at  nor  listened  to  the  others. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  circle  of  fir-trees,  where 
the  dense  plumed  darkness  of  their  topmost  branches 
met  the  only  less  dense  darkness  of  the  sky.  And  she 
brooded.  Once  she  kissed  the  hand  which  Adrian  Sav- 
age had  kissed. 

But  the  figures  and  voices  came  nearer.  Amy  Wood- 
ford, her  Oxford  undergraduate  brother,  and  the  two 
Busbridge  boys  were  saying  good-night.  Their  feet 
tapped  and  scraped  on  the  quarries  of  the  veranda. 
Somebody  ran  into  a  chair,  toppled  it  over,  gave  a  yelp, 
and  the  whole  company  laughed.  These  playful  go- 
ings-on came  between  Joanna  and  her  brooding.  She 
rose  impatiently,  crossed  the  room  to  her  bureau,  lighted 
the  candles,  and  sat  down  to  write. 

"August  21 ,  IQO~ 
"We  are  never  alone.  I  try  not  to  be  irritable,  but 
this  constant  entertaining  wears  me  out.  It  is  contrary 
to  all  the  traditions  of  our  home  life.  I  cannot  help 
thinking  how  strongly  papa  would  have  condemned  it. 
Even  mamma  would  have  disapproved.  I  fear  I  am 
wanting  in  moral  courage  and  firmness  in  not  expressing 
disapproval  more  often  myself;    but  Margaret  always 

334 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

imputes  wrong  motives  to  me  and  inverts  the  meaning 
of  that  which  I  say.  She  cannot  be  brought  to  see  that  I 
object  on  principle,  and  accuses  me  of  a  selfish  attempt 
to  shirk  exertion.  She  says  I  am  inhospitable  and 
elusive.  She  even  accuses  me  of  being  niggardly  and 
grudging  my  share  in  the  increased  household  expendi- 
ture. This  is  unjust,  and  I  cannot  help  resenting  it. 
Yesterday  I  remonstrated  with  her,  and  our  discussion 
degenerated  to  a  wrangle,  which  was  painful  and  unbe- 
coming. To-day  she  has  avoided  speaking  to  me  unless 
positively  obliged  to  do  so.  I  feel  I  have  failed  in  regard 
to  Margaret,  and  that  I  ought  to  have  kept  up  a  higher 
standard  since  papa  died  and  I  became,  virtually,  the 
head  of  the  house.  Margaret  is  entirely  occupied  with 
amusement  and  with  dress.  This  must  be,  in  part,  my 
fault,  though  dear  mamma  always  feared  frivolous  in- 
clinations in  Margaret.  It  is  all  very  trying.  I  doubt 
whether  Marion  Chase's  influence  is  good  for  her.  I  am 
sure  Mr.  Challoner's  is  not.  Marion  is  fairly  well  edu- 
cated, but  is  without  cultivated  tastes.  Mr.  Challoner  is 
not  even  well  educated.  They  both  flatter  her  and  defer 
to  her  wishes  far  too  much.  Other  people  flatter  her 
too,  even  serious  persons,  such  as  the  Norbitons  and  Mrs. 
Paull.  I  do  not  think  I  am  jealous  of  Margaret,  but  I  will 
scrutinize  my  own  feelings  more  closely  upon  this  point. 
"  I  am  afraid  the  servants  observe  that  she  and  I  are 
not  on  happy  terms.  This  worries  me.  I  dread  the 
household  taking  sides.  Isherwood  and  Johnson,  and,  I 
believe,  Smallbridge  are  quite  faithful  to  me.  So  is  Ros- 
siter,  though  I  cannot  help  attributing  that  mainly  to 
her  dislike  of  the  increased  work  in  the  kitchen.  But 
Margaret's  new  maid  and  her  chauffeur — whose  manner 
I  consider  much  too  familiar — create  a  fresh  element  in 
our  establishment.  They  both  are  showy,  and  I  mis- 
trust the  effect  of  their  companionship  upon  the  younger 
servants.  I  no  longer  really  feel  mistress  in  my  own 
house.     My  position   is   rendered   undignified.     Some- 

335 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

times  I  regret  the  old  days  at  Highdene,  or  here,  be- 
fore papa's  death.  But  that  is  weak  of  me,  even 
hypocritical,  since  it  is  dread  of  responsibility  rather 
than  affection  for  the  past  which  dictates  the  wish. 
I  must  school  myself  to  indifference,  and  try  more  ear- 
nestly to  rise  superior  to  these  worries.  I  must  look 
forward  rather  than  look  back." 

Joanna  laid  down  her  pen,  held  up  her  right  hand, 
kissed  the  back  of  it  just  above  the  ridge  of  the  knuckles, 
thrust  it  within  the  open  neck  of  her  n£glig£  and,  placing 
her  left  hand  over  it,  pressed  it  against  her  meager  bosom. 

"  I  must  look  forward,"  she  said  half  aloud.  " '  Noth- 
ing is  changed  between  us.'  He  told  me  so  himself  the 
night  before  he  left.     I  must  rest  in  that." 

She  got  up  and  paced  the  length  of  the  room  for  a 
while,  repeating — "  I  must  rest  in  that,  must  rest  in  that." 

A  sound  of  voices  still  rose  from  the  garden,  now 
a  man's  and  a  woman's  in  low  and  evidently  intimate 
talk.  Joanna  stood  still.  The  note  of  intimacy  ex- 
cited subconscious,  unacknowledged  envy  within  her. 
She  did  not  distinguish,  nor  did  she  attempt  to  dis- 
tinguish, the  words  said.  The  tones  were  enough.  It 
got  upon  her  nerves  to  hear  a  man  and  woman  speak 
thus.  A  little  longer  and  she  felt  she  should  be  unable 
to  bear  it — she  must  command  them  to  stop. 

She  went  back  to  her  bureau  again.  Here,  at  a  dis- 
tance from  the  window,  the  voices  were  less  audible. 
She  sat  down  and  forced  herself  to  write. 

"This  is  the  second  dinner-party  we  have  given,  or, 
rather,  which  Margaret  has  given,  within  a  week.  I  ab- 
sented myself,  pleading  neuralgia,  and  remained  up-stairs 
in  the  blue  sitting-room.  With  the  exception  of  Marion 
and  Mr.  Challoner,  it  was  a  boy-and-girl  party.  I  do 
not  feel  at  my  ease  in  such  company.  I  fail  to  see  the 
point  of  their  slang  expressions  and  their  jokes,  and  I 

33& 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

do  not  understand  the  technical  terms  regarding  games 
which  they  so  constantly  employ.  No  doubt  my  dining 
up-stairs  will  be  a  cause  of  offense,  but  I  cannot  help  it. 
If  Margaret  invites  her  own  friends  here  so  often  she 
must  at  least  contrive  sometimes  to  entertain  them  with- 
out my  assistance.  I  will  try  to  dismiss  this  subject 
from  my  mind.     To  dwell  upon  it  only  irritates  me. 

"  I  really  needed  to  be  alone  to-night.  I  live  stupidly, 
from  day  to  day.  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  have  a  more 
definite  routine  of  reading  and  of  self-culture.  I  ought 
to  spend  the  present  interval  in  educating  myself  more 
thoroughly  for  my  future  occupations  and  duties.  I  will 
draw  up  some  general  scheme  of  study.  And  I  will 
keep  my  diary  more  regularly.  I  so  seldom  write  now, 
yet  I  know  it  is  good  for  me.  Writing  obliges  me  to 
be  clear  in  my  intentions  and  in  my  thought.  I  am  self- 
indulgent  and  allow  myself  to  be  too  indefinite  and 
vague,  to  let  my  mind  drift.  Papa  always  warned  me 
against  that.  He  used  to  say  no  woman  was  ever  a 
sufficiently  close  thinker.  The  inherent  inferiority  of 
the  feminine  intelligence  was,  he  held,  proved  by  this 
cardinal  defect.  I  know  my  inclination  has  always 
been  toward  too  great  introspection,  and  I  regret  now 
that  I  have  not  striven  more  consistently  after  mental 
directness  and  grasp.  I  have  been  reading  the  R&vue 
de  Deux  Mondes  lately,  feeling  it  a  duty  to  acquaint  my- 
self with  modern  French  literature.  The  luminous  ob- 
jectivity of  the  French  mind  impresses  me  very  strongly 
— an  objectivity  which  is  neither  superficial  nor  unduly 
materialistic.  When  listening  to  Adrian  I  was  often 
struck  by  this  quality — " 

Joanna  laid  down  her  pen  once  more.  She  sat  still, 
her  hands  resting  upon  the  flat  space  of  the  desk  on 
either  side  the  blotting-pad,  her  head  thrown  back  and 
her  eyes  closed.  The  voices  in  the  garden  had  ceased,  and 
the  silence,  save  for  the  shutting  of  a  door  in  a  distant 

337 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

part  of  the  house  and  the  faint  grinding  of  wheels  and 
bell  of  a  tram-car  on  the  Barryport  Road,  was  complete. 
For  some  minutes  she  remained  in  the  same  position,  her 
body  inert,  her  inward  activity  intense.  At  last  she  raised 
her  hands  as  though  in  protest,  and,  bending  down,  fell  to 
work  upon  her  diary  again  with  a  smothered  violence. 

"  I  have  resisted  the  temptation  to  write  about  it  till 
now.  I  have  been  afraid  of  myself,  afraid  for  myself. 
But  to-night  I  feel  differently.  I  feel  a  necessity  to  refer 
to  it — to  set  it  down  in  words,  and  to  relieve  myself  of 
the  burden  of  the  'thing  unspoken.'  On  former  occa- 
sions when  I  have  been  greatly  harassed  and  troubled 
I  have  found  alleviation  in  so  doing. 

"  I  want  to  make  it  quite  clear  to  myself  that  I  have 
never  doubted  consideration  for  me,  a  desire  to  spare  me 
distress  and  agitation,  dictated  Adrian's  silence  regard- 
ing his  sudden  and  unexpected  departure.  He  knew 
how  painful  it  would  be  to  me  to  part  with  him,  particu- 
larly after  our  conversation  regarding  Bibby.  Seeing 
how  overwrought  I  had  been  by  that  conversation, 
he  wished  to  put  no  further  strain  upon  me.  I  want  to 
make  it  quite  clear  to  myself  that  the  letter  he  left  for  us 
with  Smallbridge  was  all  that  good  taste  and  courtesy 
demanded.  Yet  it  hurt  me.  It  hurts  me  still.  He 
took  pains  to  thank  us  for  our  hospitality  and  to  express 
his  pleasure  in  having  helped  us  through  all  the  business 
connected  with  our  succession  to  papa's  property.  He 
said  a  number  of  kind  and  friendly  things.  Few  per- 
sons could  have  written  a  more  graceful  or  cousinly 
letter.  I  know  all  this.  I  entertain  no  doubt  of  his 
sincerity.  Still  the  letter  did  hurt  me.  Margaret  ap- 
propriated it.  It  was  addressed  to  her  as  well  as  to  me, 
so,  I  suppose,  she  believed  herself  to  have  a  right  to 
take  possession  of  it.  And  I  am  not  sure  I  wished  to 
keep  it.  I  could  not  have  put  it  with  his  other  letters, 
since  it  only  belonged  to  me  in  part.     Yet  I  often  won- 

338 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

der  what  Margaret  has  done  with  it — thrown  it  into  the 
waste-paper  basket  most  likely!  And  it  is  very  dreadful 
to  think  any  letter  of  his  has  been  thrown  away  or  burned. 
Just  because  it  was  only  half  mine  I  feel  so  bitterly  about 
it.  I  am  afraid  I  have  allowed  this  bitterness  to  affect 
my  attitude  toward  Margaret;  but  it  is  very  painful 
that  she  should  share,  in  any  degree,  the  correspondence 
which  is  of  such  infinite  value  to  me.  I  do  accept  the 
fact  that  he  acted  in  good  faith,  without  an  idea  how 
deeply  so  apparently  simple  a  thing  would  wound  me. 
I  excuse  him  of  the  most  remote  wish  to  wound  me. 
But  I  was,  and  am,  wounded;  and  his  letters  since  then — 
there  are  five  of  them — have  failed  to  heal  the  wound. 

"It  is  dreadful  to  write  all  this  down;  but  it  is  far 
more  dreadful  to  let  it  remain  on  my  mind,  corroding  all 
my  thought  of  him.  Not  that  it  really  does  so.  In  my 
agitation  I  overstate.  '  Nothing  is  changed  between  us. ' 
No,  nothing,  Adrian — believe  me,  nothing.  Yet  in  those 
last  five  letters  I  do  detect  a  change.  They  have  not  the 
playful  frankness  of  the  earlier  ones.  I  detect  effort  in 
them.  They  are  very  interesting  and  very  kind,  I  know; 
still  there  is  something  lacking  which  I  can  only  describe 
as  the  personal  note.  They  are  written  as  a  duty,  they 
lack  spontaneity.  He  tells  me  he  has  been  detained  in 
Paris,  all  the  summer,  by  the  illness — nervous  breakdown 
— of  a  former  schoolfellow.  He  tells  me  of  his  con- 
tinued efforts  to  trace  Bibby.  But  these  are  outside 
things,  of  which  he  might  write  to  any  acquaintance.  I 
read  and  re-read  these  letters  in  the  hope  of  discovering 
some  word,  some  message,  actual  or  implied,  addressed 
to  me  as  me,  the  woman  he  has  so  wonderfully  chosen. 
But  I  do  not  find  it,  so  the  wound  remains  unhealed. 

"Yet  how  ungrateful  I  am  to  complain!  To  do  so 
shows  me  my  own  nature  in  a  dreadful  light — grasp- 
ing, impatient,  suspicious.  Innumerable  duties  and 
occupations  may  so  readily  interfere  to  prevent  his 
writing  more  frequently  or  more  fully !     Why  cannot  I 

339 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

trust  him  more  ?     Is  it  not  the  very  height  of  ingratitude 
thus  to  cavil  and  to  doubt  ?" 

Overcome  by  emotion,  Joanna  left  the  bureau  and 
paced  the  room  once  more,  her  arms  hanging  straight  at 
her  sides,  her  hands  plucking  at  the  pleatings  of  her 
n$glig$.  The  heat  seemed  to  her  to  have  increased  to  an 
almost  unbearable  extent,  notwithstanding  which  she 
clung  to  her  woolen  garment.  Crossing  to  the  washing- 
stand,  she  dipped  a  handkerchief  in  the  water  and, 
folding  it  into  a  bandage,  held  it  .across  her  forehead. 
She  blew  out  the  candles  and,  returning  to  the  open 
window,  sank  into  the  easy-chair.  The  sky  remained 
unclouded,  but  in  the  last  hour  had  so  thickened 
with  thunder  haze  that  it  was  difficult  to  distin- 
guish the  tree -tops  from  it.  Joanna  gazed  fixedly 
at  this  hardly  determinable  line  of  junction.  Pres- 
ently she  began  to  talk  to  herself  in  short,  hurried  sen- 
tences. 

"I  know  I  told  him  I  would  wait.  I  believed  I  had 
strength  sufficient  for  entire  submission.  But  I  am 
weaker  than  I  supposed.  I  despise  myself  for  that  weak- 
ness. But  I  cannot  wait.  He  is  my  life.  Without 
him  I  have  no  life — none  that  is  coherent  and  progressive. 
My  loneliness  and  emptiness,  apart  from  my  relation  to 
him,  are  dreadful.  And  lately  jealousy  has  grown  shock- 
ingly upon  me.  I  think  of  nothing  else.  I  am  jealous  of 
every  person  whom  he  sees,  of  every  object  which  he 
touches,  of  his  literary  work  because  it  interests  him — 
jealous  of  the  old  schoolfellow  whom  he  is  nursing; 
jealous  of  Bibby,  for  whom  he  searches;  jealous  of  the 
very  air  he  breathes  and  ground  on  which  he  treads. 
All  these  come  between  him  and  me,  stealing  from  me 
that  which  should  be  mine,  since  they  are  close  to  him 
and  engage  his  attention  and  thought. " 

Joanna  stopped,  breathless,  and,  closing  her  eyes, 
lay  back  in  the  chair,  while  drops  oozing  from  the  wet 

34o 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

bandage  trickled  downward  and  dripped  upon  her  thin 
neck  and  breast. 

"Now  at  last  I  am  honest  with  myself,"  she  whis- 
pered. "I  have  spoken  the  truth — the  hateful  truth, 
since  it  lays  bare  to  me  the  inner  meanness  of  my  own 
nature.  I  no  longer  palliate  my  own  repulsive  qualities 
or  attempt  to  excuse  myself  to  myself.  I  admit  my 
many  faults.  I  call  them  by  their  real  names.  Now, 
possibly,  I  shall  become  calmer  and  more  resigned.  The 
completeness  of  my  faith  in  him  will  come  back.  And 
then,  some  day  in  the  future,  when  I  tell  him  how  I 
repent  of  my  suspicions  and  rebellious  doubts,  he  will 
forgive  me  and  help  me  to  eradicate  my  faults  and  make 
me  more  worthy  of  the  wonderful  gift  of  his  love." 

Then  she  lay  still,  exhausted  by  her  paroxysm  of  self- 
accusation. 

"Here  you  are  at  last!  You  do  take  an  uncon- 
scionably long  time  saying  good-night!  I  nearly  gave 
up  and  went  indoors  to  bed." 

This  chaffingly,  from  the  terrace  outside  the  veranda, 
in  Marion  Chase's  hearty  barytone. 

"I  imagine  people  in  our  situation  usually  have  a 
good  deal  to  say  to  each  other." 

Rustlings  of  silk  and  creakings  followed,  occasioned 
by  the  descent  of  a  well-cushioned  feminine  body  into 
a  wicker  chair. 

"And  pray,  how  far  did  you  go  with  him?"  still 
chaffingly. 

"Only  to  the  end  of  the  carriage-drive,  and  then  into 
the  road  for  a  minute  to  see  the  lightning.  Really, 
it's  too  odd — quite  creepy.  Looking  toward  the  County 
Gates,  the  sky  seems  to  open  and  shut  like  the  lid  of  a 
box." 

"I  shouldn't  mind  its  opening  wider  and  giving 
us  some  rain.  It's  too  stuffy  for  words  to-night.  And 
then  he  proceeded  to  walk  back  with  you,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  he  didn't,  because  I  dismissed  him.  I  can  be 
34i 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

firm  when  I  choose,  you  know;  and  I  am  sure  it  is 
wisest  to  begin  as  I  mean  to  go  on.  I  intend  to  be  my 
own  mistress — " 

"And  his  master?" 

"Doesn't  that  follow  as  a  matter  of  course — a  'neces- 
sary corollary,'  as  Joanna  would  say?  Too,  I  didn't 
want  to  run  the  risk  of  meeting  any  of  the  servants 
coming  in.  He  is  liable  to  be  a  little  demonstrative 
when  we  are  alone,  don't  you  know." 

"Margaret!" 

"Well,  why  not?  I  take  demonstrations  quite  calmly 
so  long  as  they  are  made  in  private.  It  would  be  silly 
to  do  otherwise.  They're  just,  of  course,  part  of 
the—" 

"Whole  show?" 

"Yes,  if  you  like  to  be  vulgar,  Marion,  and  quote 
the  Busbridge  boys — I  limit  my  quotations  to  Joanna — 
of  the  whole  show." 

After  a  short  pause. 

"Maggie,  did  you  settle  any  dates  to-night?  I 
thought  he  seemed  preoccupied,  as  if  he  meant  busi- 
ness of  some  sort.     You  don't  mind  my  asking?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  He  says  he  is  bothered  because 
his  position  is  an  equivocal  one." 

"So  it  is."  This  very  sensibly  from  Marion  Chase. 
"People  begin  to  think  you  are  simply  mean  to  keep 
him  dangling." 

"Do  they?     How  amusing!" 

"Not  for  him,  poor  beast."  And  both  young  women 
laughed. 

"He  is  wild  to  have  the  announcement  made  at 
once." 

"In  the  papers,  do  you  mean?" 

"Yes,  The  Times  and  Morning  Post,  of  course,  and 
two  local  ones.  He  suggests  the  Stourmouth  and  Mary- 
church  Chronicle  and  the  Barryport  Gazette.  I  should 
have  thought  the  Courier  ranked   higher,  but  he  says 

342 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

it's  not  nearly  so  widely  read  as  the  Chronicle.     Then 
we  ought  to  put  it  in  a  Yorkshire  paper  as  well,  I  think  " 

"How  awfully  thrilling!" 

At  first  to  Joanna,  at  the  open  window  above,  still 
laboring  with  the  aftermath  of  her  gloomy  outbreaks  of 
passion,  this  conversation  had  been  but  as  a  chirping  of 
birds  or  squeaking  of  bats.  Such  slipshod  telegraphic 
chatterings  between  the  two  young  ladies,  obnoxious 
alike  to  her  taste  and  scholarship,  were  her  daily  por- 
tion. Joanna  had  scornfully  trained  herself  to  ignore 
them.  She  could  not  prevent  their  assailing  her  ears; 
but  she  could,  and  as  a  rule  did,  successfully  prevent 
their  reaching  her  understanding. 

To-night,  however,  strained  and  on  edge  as  she  was, 
her  will  proved  incapable  of  prolonged  effort,  and  in- 
difference was  unsustainable.  Gradually  the  manner 
of  the  speakers  and  significance  of  that  which  they  said 
mastered  her  unwilling  attention.  Surprise  followed  on 
surprise.  She  knew  how  the  two  friends  talked  in  her 
presence.  Was  this  how  they  talked  in  her  absence,  dis- 
closing— especially  in  the  case  of  her  sister — an  attitude 
of  mind,  let  alone  definite  purposes  and  actions,  of  which 
she  had  been  in  total  ignorance?  And — to  carry  the 
question  a  step  farther — -did  this  connote  corresponding 
ignorance  on  her  part  in  other  directions?  Was  she, 
Joanna,  living  in  worlds  very  much  unrealized,  where  all 
manner  of  things  of  primary  importance  remained  un- 
known to  or  misinterpreted  by  her? 

The  thought  opened  up  vistas  packed  with  agitation 
and  alarm.  Self-defense  admits  few  scruples;  and  it  ap- 
peared to  poor  Joanna  just  then  that  every  man's  hand 
was  against  her.  Living  in  the  midst  of  deceptions,  what 
weapon  except  deceit — and  in  this  case  deceit  was  tacit 
only — remained  to  her  ?  Her  sense  of  honor,  and  along 
with  it  the  self-respect  in  which  the  roots  of  honor  are 
set,  went  overboard.  Instead  of  leaving  the  window 
and  refusing  to  hear  more,  Joanna  stayed.     A  morbid 

343 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

desire  to  know,  to  learn  all  that  which  was  being  kept 
from  her,  to  get  at  the  truth  of  these  lives  lived  so  close 
to  her  own,  to  get  at  the  truth  of  their  opinion  of  her, 
seized  upon  her. 

She  took  the  moist  handkerchief  off  her  forehead,  and, 
slipping  noiselessly  out  of  her  chair,  knelt  upon  the  rug 
laid  along  the  inner  side  of  the  window-sill,  craning  her 
neck  forward  so  that  no  word  of  the  conversation  might 
escape  her. 

"Personally,  as  I  told  him,  I  was  in  no  particular 
hurry." 

"Pleasant  news  for  him!"  Marion  Chase  returned. 

"But  I'm  not.  There  are  several  good  reasons  for 
waiting — our  mourning  for  one  thing.  And  then  the 
question  of  a  house.  Heatherleigh's  not  large  enough, 
or  smart  enough — all  very  well  for  a  bachelor  estab- 
lishment, I  dare  say.  What  I  should  like  is  this 
house;  but  I  doubt  whether  Joanna  would  give  it  up, 
though  it  really  is  altogether  too  extensive  a  place  for 
her  alone.  I  don't  mean  that  she  could  not  afford  to 
keep  it  up.  She  could  afford  to;  but  it  would  be 
ostentatious,  ridiculously  out  of  proportion  for  an  un- 
married woman." 

Joanna's  indignation  nearly  flamed  into  speech.  She 
moved  impatiently,  causing  the  chair  behind  her  to 
scrape  on  its  casters. 

"What  was  that?"  from  Marion  Chase. 

"  A  fir-cone  falling  probably.  It's  hotter  than  ever. — 
No,  I  haven't  the  smallest  intention  of  not  going  through 
with  this  business;  but  I'm  in  no  hurry.  Things  are 
quite  amusing  as  they  are." 

"I  believe  you  enjoy  taking  people  in,  you  wicked 
old  thing." 

"If  keeping  quiet  about  my  own  affairs  is  taking 
people  in,  I  suppose  I  do  enjoy  it.  And  then,  of  course, 
you  see  I  am  bound  to  tell  Joanna  first.  There's  no 
help  for  that—" 

344 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"Magsie,  you  know  her  windows  are  open?  You 
don't  think  we  can  be  overheard?" 

"No;  it's  all  right.  I  looked  when  I  came  back. 
There's  no  light.  Either  she's  still  in  the  blue  sitting- 
room  or  she's  gone  to  bed.  Too,  I  must  do  her  the  justice 
to  say  Joanna  is  not  the  sort  of  person  who  listens.  She 
would  consider  it  wrong." 

Joanna  drew  back  and  was  on  the  point  of  rising. 
Again  the  chair  scraped. 

"And  then  she  would  never  condescend  to  listen  to 
anything  I  might  happen  to  be  saying.  There  is  a  com- 
pensating freedom  in  being  beneath  notice!" 

Joanna  remained  on  her  knees  at  the  open  window. 

"  I  own  I  most  cordially  dislike  the  idea  of  telling  her," 
Margaret  continued.  "  I  know  she  will  be  unreasonable 
and  say  things  which  will  lead  to  all  sorts  of  disputes 
and  disagreeables  between  us." 

"Oh!  but  she  must  know  perfectly  well  already,  only 
she  means  to  make  you  speak  first,"  the  other  returned. 
"  It's  too  absurd  to  suppose  she  hasn't  spotted  what's 
been  going  on.  Why,  his  state  of  mind  has  been  patent 
for  ages.     She  can't  be  off  seeing." 

"I  don't  believe  for  a  single  moment  she  does  see. 
She's  so  frightfully  self-absorbed  and  self-occupied.  You 
know  yourself,  Marion,  how  extraordinarily  obtuse  she 
can  be .     She  lives  in  the  most  hopeless  state  of  dream — ' ' 

Joanna  swayed  a  little  as  she  knelt  and  laid  hold  of 
the  folds  of  the  striped  tabaret  window-curtain  for  sup- 
port. 

"I  know  she  always  has  been  inclined  to  dream;  but 
recently  it  has  grown  upon  her.  For  me  to  say  any- 
thing to  her  about  it  is  worse  than  useless.  She  only  sits 
upon  me,  and  then  we  'have  words,'  as  Isherwood  says. 
At  bottom  Joanna  is  awfully  obstinate.  In  many  ways 
she  reminds  me  very  much  of  papa;  only,  being  a 
woman,  unfortunately  one  can't  get  round  her  as  one 
could   round   him.      People    are    beginning   to   notice 

345 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

what  an  odd,  moody  state  she  is  in.  Mrs.  Norbiton  said 
something  about  it  when  they  dined  here  on  Monday. 
She  said  Joanna  seemed  so  absent-minded,  and  asked 
whether  I  thought  she  wasn't  well.  And  Colonel  Haig 
mentioned  it  to  me  the  afternoon  we  had  tea  with  him 
at  the  golf  club.  That  really  led  to  his  telling  me  what 
he  had  heard  in  Paris." 

"Telling  you — oh,  I  remember!  What  he  had  heard 
about  Mr.  Savage?"  Marion  Chase  remarked. 

Joanna  got  on  to  her  feet,  went  out  on  to  the  balcony, 
and  hung  over  the  red  balustrade  into  the  hot,  thick 
darkness. 

"Margaret!"  she  called.  "Margaret,  I  must  speak  to 
you.  Please  come  to  my  room.  It  is  something  urgent. 
Come  at  once." 


CHAPTER   II 

RECORDING    A    SISTERLY    EFFORT    TO    LET    IN    LIGHT 

WHEN  Margaret  Smyrthwaite  entered  her  sister's 
bedchamber  she  brought  the  atmosphere  of  a  per- 
fumer's shop  along  with  her.  Under  the  elder  and  sterner 
reign  scent-sprays  and  scent-caskets  were  unknown  at 
the  Tower  House,  Montagu  Smyrthwaite  holding  such 
adjuncts  to  the  feminine  toilet  in  hardly  less  abhorrence 
than  powder  or  paint  itself.  A  modest  whiff  of  aromatic 
vinegar  or  of  eau-de-Cologne  touched  the  high-water 
mark  of  permitted  indulgence.  But  in  the  use  of  per- 
fumes, as  in  other  matters,  Margaret — so  Mrs.  Isher- 
wood  put  it — "had  broke  out  sadly  since  the  poor  old 
gentleman  went."  The  intellectual  streak  common  to 
the  Smyrthwaite  family  had  from  the  first  been  absent 
in  the  young  lady's  composition;  while  the  morbid 
streak,  also  common  in  the  family,  was  now  cauterized, 
if  not  actually  eliminated,  by  the  sunshine  of  her  seven 
thousand  a  year.  A  North-country  grit,  a  rather  foxy 
astuteness  and  a  toughness  of  fiber — also  inherited — re- 
mained, however,  very  much  to  the  fore  in  her,  with  the 
result  that  she  would  travel — was,  indeed,  already 
traveling — the  grand  trunk  road  of  modern  life  without 
hesitation,  or  apology,  or  any  of  those  anxious  question- 
ings of  why,  wherefrom,  and  whither  which  beset  per- 
sons of  nobler  spiritual  caliber. 

In  the  past  few  months  she  had  shed  the  last  uncer- 
tainties of  girlhood.     She  had  filled  out  and  was  in  act  of 
blossoming  into  that  which  gentlemen  of  the  Challoner 
order,  in  moments  of  expansion,  not  without  a  cocking 
23  347 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

of  the  eye  and  moistening  of  the  lip,  are  tempted  to 
describe  as  a  "d — d  fine  woman."  Now  the  light  of  the 
candle  she  carried  showed  the  rounded  smoothness  of 
her  handsome  neck  and  arms,  through  the  transparent 
yoke  and  sleeves  of  her  black  evening  blouse,  touched 
the  folds  and  curls  of  bright  auburn  hair  upon  her  fore- 
head, and  brought  the  hard  bright  blue  of  her  eyes  into 
conspicuous  evidence.  A  deficiency  of  eyelash  and 
eyebrow  caused  her  permanent  vexation.  This  defect 
she  intended  to  remedy  —  some  day.  Not  just  at 
present,  however,  as  both  Joanna  and  Isherwood 
were  too  loyally  wedded  to  the  aromatic  vinegar 
and  eau-de-Cologne  regime  for  such  facial  reconstruc- 
tions to  pass  without  prejudiced  and  aggravating  com- 
ment. 

Advancing  up  the  room,  all  of  a  piece  and  somewhat 
solid  in  tread,  she  offered  a  notable  contrast  to  Joanna, 
who  awaited  her  palpitating  and  angular,  ravaged  by 
agonies  and  aspirations,  indignantly  trembling  within 
the  sagged  knife-pleatings  of  her  soiled  white  neglige'. 
The  rough  copy  and  Edition  de  luxe,  as  Adrian  had  dubbed 
them,  just  then  very  forcibly  presented  their  likeness  and 
unlikeness;  yet,  possibly,  to  a  discerning  eye,  the  rough 
copy,  though  superficially  so  conspicuously  lacking  in 
charm,  might  commend  itself  as  the  essentially  nobler 
of  these  two  human  documents. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Joanna?"  the  Edition  de  luxe 
inquired.  "Why  couldn't  you  send  Isherwood  to  say 
you  wanted  to  speak  to  me?  It's  fortunate  Marion's 
and  my  nerves  are  steady,  for  your  calling  out  gave  us 
both  an  awful  start." 

"I  did  listen,"  the  other  returned,  in  a  breathlessness 
of  strong  emotion.  "  I  was  sitting  at  the  window  in 
the  dark  when  you  began  talking.  At  first  I  paid  no 
heed;  but,  as  your  conversation  went  on,  I  found  it 
bore  reference  to  matters  which  you  are  keeping  from  me 
and  with  which  I  ought  to  be  acquainted.     I  found  it 

348 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

concerned  me — myself.  I  offer  no  apology.  I  acted  in 
self-protection.     I  listened  deliberately." 

Margaret  laid  the  magazines  and  illustrated  fashion 
papers,  she  carried  under  her  arm,  upon  the  slab  of  the 
open  bureau.  She  set  down  her  flat  candlestick  beside 
them,  thus  creating  a  triad  of  lighted  candles — unlucky 
omen! 

"Then,  Nannie,"  she  said,  coolly,  "you  did  something 
which  was  not  at  all  nice." 

The  word  stung  Joanna  by  its  grotesque  inadequacy 
either  to  the  depth  of  her  sufferings  or  of  her  transgression 
against  the  laws  of  honor.  To  range  at  the  tragic  level, 
in  relation  to  both,  would  have  afforded  her  consolation 
and  support.  Margaret  denied  such  consolation  by  tak- 
ing her  own  stand  squarely  upon  the  conventional  and 
commonplace.  Joanna's  transgression  began  to  show 
merely  vulgar.  This  compelled  her  to  descend  from 
tragic  heights. 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  you  really  are  engaged  to 
Mr.  Challoner?"  she  therefore  asked,  without  further 
preamble. 

"If  you  listened  you  must  have  gathered  as  much,  I 
imagine,"  Margaret  said. 

"  I  did — I  did,  but  I  refused  to  believe  it.  I  thought  I 
must  be  mistaken.  I  was  unprepared  for  such  news.  It 
came  to  me  as  such  a  shock,  such  a  distressing  surprise." 

"Really,  it's  quite  your  own  fault,  Joanna,"  Margaret 
returned.  "What  did  you  suppose  he'd  been  coming 
here  for  constantly?" 

"Not  for  that — " 

"Thank  you!"  Margaret  said. 

"  You  know  I  have  always  objected  to  his  being  here  so 
much.  I  tried  to  prevent  it.  I  feared  it  might  lead  to 
gossip.  I  felt  you  did  not  consider  that  seriously  enough. 
It  is  so  dreadful  that  what  we  do  or  say  should  be  com- 
mented upon.  Until  the  business  connected  with  the 
property  was  settled  I  recognized  a  necessity  for  Mr. 

349 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Challoner's  frequent  visits,  but  not  since  then,  not  for 
the  last  three  months.  I  am  quite  willing  to  admit  his 
good  points.  I  quite  believe  he  has  served  us  faithfully 
in  business. — Pray  do  not  suppose  I  underrate  his  ser- 
vices in  that  respect.  But  I  never  supposed  he  could 
presume  to  propose  to  you,  Margaret." 

"I  don't  see  anything  presumptuous  in  his  proposing. 
He  admires  me  very  much.  Is  it  such  an  unheard-of 
thing  that  he  should  wish  me  to  marry  him  ?" 

"No — no — but  that  you  should  give  him  encourage- 
ment.— For  you  must  have  encouraged  him — " 

"And" — with  disconcerting  composure  from  the  Edi- 
tion de  luxe — "why  not?" 

Joanna  began  to  pace  the  room  restlessly  in  her  trailing 
draperies. 

"Because — because" — she  said — "your  own  instinct 
must  tell  you  what  an  unsuitable  marriage  this  would  be 
for  you — for  our  parents'  daughter,  for  my  sister.  I 
don't  want  to  be  selfish,  Margaret,  but  I  have  a  right  to 
consider  my  own  future  to  some  extent;  and  Mr.  Chal- 
loner — I  dislike  to  seem  to  deprecate  him — it  is  invidious 
to  do  so — indeed,  it  is  intensely  distasteful  to  me  to  point 
out  his  peculiarities — but  when  I  think  of  him  as  a 
brother-in-law — his  antecedents,  his  standard  of  man- 
ners and  conversation  strike  me  as  so  different  to  those 
to  which  we  have  always  been  accustomed.  I  cannot 
avoid  seeing  this.  It  is  so  very  palpable.  Others  must 
see  it  too — members  of  our  family,  I  mean,  with  whom 
we  are,  or  may  in  the  future  be,  intimately  associated." 

In  her  excitement  clearness  of  statement  failed  some- 
what. Margaret  stood  listening,  calmly  obstinate,  her 
head  a  little  bent,  while  she  straightened  the  magazines 
and  picture  papers  lying  on  the  slab  of  the  bureau  with 
her  finger-tips. 

"I  didn't  for  one  moment  imagine  you  would  be 
pleased  at  my  engagement — that's  why  I  have  not  told 
you  sooner.     I  was  sure  you'd  be  disagreeable  about  it. 

3  So 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

And  you  are  disagreeable,  Joanna,  very  disagreeable 
indeed.  Like  most  people  who  plume  themselves  on 
being  very  high-minded,  you  end  by  being  very  vulgar- 
minded  and  worldly.  I  quite  expected  this  tone  from 
you;  and  so  I  put  off  telling  you  as  long  as  possible. 
Even  now,  you  must  remember,  you  have  surprised 
my  confidence.  I  have  not  given  it  voluntarily.  Useless 
discussions,  such  as  this,  bore  me." 

"Useless?"  Joanna  interrupted. 

"  Quite  useless,  unless  I  happen  to  change  my  mind, 
which  I  shall  not  do.  I  have  considered  things  all  round. 
I  have  talked  everything  over  with  Marion.  You  must 
make  what  you  like  of  it,  Joanna;  but  I  am  going  to 
marry  Challoner." 

The  scriptural  Christian  name  annoyed  her  as  suggest- 
ing possibilities  of  humorous  retrospect.  The  "mister" 
under  existing  romantic  circumstances  savored  of 
underbred,  middle-class  ceremony.  So  she  struck  for 
the  surname,  pure  and  simple,  thereby  conferring,  in 
some  sort,  the  noble  conciseness  of  a  title  upon  her 
admirer. 

"I  don't  share  your  very  exalted  opinions  of  our 
position  and  importance,"  she  continued.  "Papa  was  a 
successful  Yorkshire  mill  owner.  Challoner  is  the  head 
of  a  firm  of  successful  South-country  solicitors.  You 
talk  of  his  antecedents.  His  father  was  a  very  enter- 
prising man,  who  built  up  the  business  here  which  he 
has  carried  on  and  developed.  Everybody  in  this  part 
of  England  knows  who  Challoner,  Greatrex  &  Pewsey 
are.  The  firm's  reputation  is  above  suspicion.  They 
opened  a  branch  office  four  years  ago  at  Southampton, 
and  one  last  year  at  Weymouth.  Really,  I  can't  see 
what  you  have  to  object  to  on  the  score  of  position, 
Joanna?  Andrew  Merriman's  grandfather  was  only  a 
mill-hand." 

"  You  need  not  have  alluded  to  that,"  the  other  cried, 
sharply.     Then,    fighting   for   self-control,    she   added, 

35i 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"You  know  quite  well  it  is  a  marriage  you  would 
never  have  thought  of  making  while  papa  was  liv- 
ing-" 

"And  you  know  equally  well,  Nannie,  it  was  utterly 

hopeless  to  think  of  any  marriage  whatever  when  papa 
was  alive.  We  hardly  ever  saw  a  man.  Papa  snubbed 
every  one  who  came  near  us.  No  one  dared  propose, 
even  if  they  wished  to  do  so.  Remember  all  the  Andrew 
Merriman  business?" 

"Pray  don't  refer  to  that  again,"  Joanna  said. 

"I  only  wanted  to  give  you  an  instance — Nannie, 
would  you  mind  sitting  down?  It  makes  me  so  dread- 
fully hot  to  watch  you  roaming  about  in  that  way.  We 
could  talk  ever  so  much  better  if  you  would  only  keep 
still. — And  there  is  a  great  deal  which  has  to  be  talked 
over  some  time.  As  we  have  begun  to-night,  we  may 
as  well  go  on  and  get  through  with  it.  The  heat  makes 
me  fidgety.     I'm  not  inclined  to  go  to  bed." 

Thus  admonished,  Joanna  sank  into  the  easy-chair 
once  more.  She  doubled  herself  together,  working  her 
hands  nervously,  ball-and-socket  fashion,  in  her  lap. 
The  perception  that  this  was  a  new  Margaret,  a  Mar- 
garet wholly  unreckoned  with,  grew  upon  her.  And  along 
with  that  perception  an  apprehension  of  fronting  things 
unknown  yet  of  vital  significance,  things  which,  when 
known,  must  inevitably  color  all  her  future  outlook, 
grew  upon  her  likewise.  As  yet  the  screen  of  ignorance, 
dense  though  impalpable  as  the  dense  thunder-thickened 
sky  there  outside,  interposed  between  her  and  those 
fateful  things  veiling  them.  But  Margaret,  the  new, 
composed,  practical,  highly  perfumed  Margaret,  was  in 
act  of  drawing  that  screen  aside.  Then  what  would 
she,  Joanna,  see?  What  concourse  of  cruel  verities 
lurked  behind,  waiting  to  jump  on  her  ? — Asking  herself 
this,  she  shivered,  notwithstanding  the  heat  of  the 
atmosphere  and  of  her  woolen  gown,  with  premonition 
of  coming  chill — chill  of  loneliness,  chill  of  disaster,  of 

352 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

which  such  loneliness  was  at  once  the  bitter  flower  and 
the  root. 

Her  sister  had  followed  her  to  the  window,  and  stood 
just  within  it,  nonchalant  and  comely,  fanning  herself 
with  a  little  fan  hanging  by  a  ribbon  from  her  waist- 
band .  The  silver  spangles  upon  the  black  gauze  sparkled 
sharply  in  the  candle-light,  and  the  ebony  sticks  ticked 
as  she  waved  it  to  and  fro. 

"I  do  so  wish  you  wouldn't  make  a  tragedy  of  all 
this,  Nannie,"  she  said.  "But  of  course  I  knew  you 
would,  because  you  always  think  it  your  duty  to  get  into 
a  wild  state  of  mind  over  everything  I  say  or  do.  It 
would  be  so  much  more  comfortable  for  both  of  us  if  you 
could  get  it  into  your  head  once  and  for  all  that  you're 
not  responsible  for  me  in  any  way.  We  are  equals. 
We're  the  same  age — you  always  seem  to  forget  that — 
and  I'm  quite  as  competent  to  manage  my  affairs  as 
you  are  to  manage  yours.  You  have  no  authority  over 
me  of  any  description,  legal  or  moral,  none  whatsoever, 
you  know." 

"  I  am  only  too  well  aware  that  I  have  failed  to  in- 
fluence you,  Margaret,"  Joanna  returned,  while  waves 
of  scented  air,  set  in  motion  by  the  black  and  silver 
fan,  played  upon  her  face.  "I  had  been  thinking  of 
that  to-night,  before  I  overheard  your  and  Marion's 
conversation.  I  had  been  reproaching  myself.  I  know 
we  are  the  same  age;  but  our  dispositions  are  different, 
and  I  have  always  occupied  an  elder  sister's  position 
toward  you.  It  is  very  distressing  to  me  to  realize 
how  entirely  I  have  failed  to  influence  you.  This  con- 
templated marriage  of  yours  gives  the  measure  of  my 
non-success." 

"  Oh !  dear  me !  Influence — failure — really,  you  know, 
Nannie,  you  are  most  awfully  provoking!"  the  other  ex- 
claimed. "I  don't  want  to  lose  my  temper  and  be 
cross,  but  I  am  so  frightfully  sick  of  this  whole  respon- 
sibility mania.     It's  been  the  bugbear  of  our  lives  ever 

353 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

since  we  were  children.  Papa  and  mamma  sacrificed 
themselves  and  sacrificed  us  to  it,  with  the  result  that 
we've  always  been  in  an  unnatural  attitude,  like  dogs 
trying  to  walk  on  their  hind  legs." 

"Margaret,  Margaret!"  Joanna  protested,  scandalized 
by  the  filial  profanity  of  the  suggested  picture. 

"So  we  have,  Nannie.  And  in  what  has  this  ever- 
lasting preaching  of  responsibility  ended  ?  Why,  simply 
in  making  papa  believe  he  was  doing  right  by  being  rude 
and  arrogant  and  dreadfully  disagreeable  over  trifles. 
In  making  mamma  a  hopeless  invalid.  In  ruining  Bibby, 
body  and  soul,  making  him  untruthful  and  dishonest, 
and  inclined  to  do  all  sorts  of  horrid,  ungentlemanly 
things.  Hush?  No,  I  am  not  going  to  hush,  Joanna. 
You  asked  me  to  come  here,  and  you  asked  me  a  question. 
Now  you  really  must  listen  till  I  have  said  all  I  have  to 
say  in  answer.  I  want  to  get  it  over.  It's  far  too  un- 
pleasant to  go  through  twice.  And  this  mania  about 
responsibility  has  been  disastrous  for  you  too  —  you 
know  that  perfectly  well.  It  has  spoiled  your  life  by 
keeping  you  in  a  perpetual  state  of  fuss  and  worry,  and 
of  dissatisfaction  with  your  own  conduct  and  every- 
body else's.  As  for  me,  it  made  me  hysterical  and  fret- 
ful, and  deceitful  too.  How  could  one  help  being  deceit- 
ful when  one  was  always  dodging  some  silly  trumped-up 
fault-finding  or  bother  ?  I  believe  it  would  have  broken 
up  my  nerves  altogether  if  it  had  gone  on  much  longer. 
And  what  on  earth  does  it  all  mean?  What  were  we 
responsible  for?  Who  were  we  responsible  to?"  she 
went  on  contemptuously.  "I  don't  know.  And  I  don't 
believe  you  know  either,  Joanna,  if  you  would  only  use 
your  common-sense  and  give  up  worshiping  words  and 
phrases.  The  whole  thing  is  nonsense,  and  rather  lying 
nonsense — just  a  pretending  to  oneself  that  one  is  bet- 
ter and  cleverer  than  other  people.  When  you  come 
to  think  of  it,  this  craze  for  superiority  is  so  frightfully 
conceited!     For  who  cares,  or  ever  has  cared,  whether 

354 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

we  Smyrthwaites  were  intellectual,  and  high-minded, 
and  cultured, and  well-read, and  all  the  rest  of  it, or  not? 
In  my  opinion  the  system  on  which  our  parents  brought 
us  up,  and  on  which  their  parents  brought  them  up,  is 
nothing  but  an  excuse  for  self-adulation  and  pharisaism. 
I  am  sick  to  death  of  the  whole  thing,  and  I  mean  to  break 
away  from  it.  And  the  simplest  way  to  do  so  is  to  marry 
Challoner.  He's  about  as  far  away  from  it  all  as  any- 
body well  can  be — just  a  modern,  practical  man,  who 
cares  for  real  things,  not  for  advanced  thought,  and  re- 
form, and  political  economy,  and  questions  of  morals,  and 
so  on.  He  isn't  a  bit  intellectual.  He  only  reads  the 
newspapers,  or  an  occasional  novel  in  the  train  when 
he's  traveling,  I  am  thankful  to  say.  And,  I  am  awfully 
glad  he  belongs  to  the  Church  of  England,  for  I  mean  to 
break  with  the  Unitarian  Connection,  Joanna.  I  don't 
care  about  doctrine  one  way  or  another;  but  I  can 
see  how  narrow-minded  and  exclusive  it  makes  people 
when  they  belong  to  a  small  sect.  Unitarians  are  always 
so  frightfully  pleased  with  themselves  because  they  be- 
lieve less  than  other  people.  They're  always  living  up 
to  their  own  cleverness  in  not  believing;  and  it  does 
make  them  awfully  hind-leggy  and  boring. — And  then, 
of  course,  being  a  Nonconformist  cuts  one  out  of  a  lot. 
Socially  it  is  no  end  of  a  disadvantage  to  one.  It  didn't 
signify  so  much  in  the  North,  but  here  it  has  stood 
horridly  in  our  way.  Lots  of  nice  people  would  have 
called  on  us  when  we  first  came  if  we  hadn't  been  dis- 
senters. And,  please  understand,  I  mean  to  know 
everybody  now  and  be  popular.  I  should  enjoy  giving 
away  prizes  and  opening  bazaars,  and  entertaining  on  a 
big  scale,  and  taking  part  in  all  that  goes  on  here.  It 
would  amuse  me.  I  can  give  large  subscriptions, 
and  I  mean  to  give  them.  As  I  say,  I  intend  to 
be  popular  and  to  be  talked  about.  I  intend  to 
make  myself  a  power  in  the  place.  And  then,  Joan- 
na,    there's     something    more  —  I     dare     say     you'll 

355 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

think  it  necessary  to  be  scandalized  —  but  there's 
this—" 

She  stopped  fanning  herself,  and  looked  out  into  the 
hot  darkness,  smiling,  a  certain  luster  upon  her  smooth 
skin  and  a  fullness  about  her  bosom  and  her  lips.  Her 
voice  took  on  richer  tones  when  she  spoke. 

"  I  want  to  marry,  and  I  mean  to  marry.  I  am  nine 
and  twenty,  and  I'm  tired  of  not  knowing  exactly  what 
marriage  is.  So  I'm  not  going  to  wait,  and  hawk  myself 
and  my  fortune  about  on  the  chance  of  a  smarter  match. 
I  have  decided  to  be  sensible  and  make  the  best  of  what  I 
have — namely,  Challoner.  I  don't  pretend  he  is  perfect. 
I  take  him  as  he  stands.  After  all,  he  is  only  just  forty 
and  he  is  in  excellent  health.  I  care  about  that,  for  I 
dislike  sickly  people,  especially  men.  They're  always 
horridly  selfish  and  fanciful.  Either  they  oughtn't  to 
marry  at  all  or  ought  to  marry  hospital  nurses. — Then 
Challoner  is  making  a  good  income.  We've  talked  quite 
frankly  over  the  money  question.     And  then — then — " 

For  the  first  time  she  showed  signs  of  slight  embarrass- 
ment, laughing  a  little,  pursing  up  her  lips  and  fanning 
herself  again  lightly. 

"Then,"  she  repeated,  "he  is  desperately  in  love  with 
me,  and  I  enjoy  that.  I  want  more  of  it.  It  interests 
and  amuses  me.  It  is  exciting  to  find  one  can  twist  a 
great,  hard-headed  fellow  like  Challoner  round  one's 
little  finger;  make  him  go  hot  and  cold,  grow  nervous 
and  all  of  a  tremor  just  by  a  word  or  a  look.  He  is  like 
so  much  dough  in  my  hands.  I  can  shape  him  as  I  like. 
There's  nothing  he  wouldn't  do  to  please  me.  Oh!  yes, 
he  is  desperately  in  love  with  me!" 

This  drawing  back  of  the  interposing  screen  and 
exhibition  of  the  Smyrthwaite  tradition  and  system, 
stripped  to  the  skin,  stripped,  indeed,  to  an  almost  pri- 
mordial nothingness,  had  been  richly  distressing  to  poor 
Joanna.  For  was  not  she  intrinsically  the  product  and 
exponent  of  the  said  tradition  and  system  ?     Did  it  not 

356 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

stand  for  the  loom  upon  which  the  whole  pattern  of  her 
character  and  conduct  was  woven?  In  thus  stripping 
the  system,  she  was  painfully  conscious  that  Margaret 
stripped  her  also  to  a  like  miserable  nakedness  and  noth- 
ingness. For,  admitting  the  laws  which  she  had  been 
brought  up  to  reverence,  and  to  obey  which  she  had 
trained  herself  with  such  unsparing  diligence,  were 
nugatory,  what  remained  to  her  for  guidance  or  inspira- 
tion? Admitting  her  strenuously  acquired  mental 
attitude  and  habit  to  be  but  senseless  posturing,  as  of 
dancing  dogs,  how  deplorably  she  had  wasted  herself 
upon  that  which  profiteth  not!  If  the  formative  proc- 
esses of  her  education  and  culture  represented  nothing 
better  than  laborious  subscription  to  exploded  fallacy, 
must  she  not  make  a  return,  with  all  possible  speed,  upon 
whatever  remnant  of  unalloyed  instinct  and  spontaneous 
purpose  might  still  be  left  in  her  ?  But  how  to  make  such 
a  return  ?  How  to  reform,  to  recreate,  her  attitude  and 
outlook  ? 

These  questions  assailed  Joanna,  bewildering  alike  in 
their  multiplicity  and  intricacy.  The  wheels  of  her  over- 
taxed brain  whizzed  and  whirred.  For  the  curse  of  the 
system-ridden,  of  the  pedant,  of  the  doctrinaire,  is  loss 
of  clear-seeing  simplicity,  of  initiative,  of  that  power 
of  direct  and  unaided  action  which  is  the  reward  of  sim- 
plicity. Stripped  of  encompassing  precept  and  prece- 
dent, deprived  of  sustaining  prejudice,  Joanna  found  her- 
self naked  and  helpless  indeed.  She  ran  wildly  in  search 
of  fresh  precept  and  precedent  in  which  to  clothe  herself. 
And  found  them,  after  a  fashion  normal  and  natural 
enough  had  they  happened  to  be  grounded  in  fact  in- 
stead of  in  most  pitiful  illusion. 

For  as,  distressedly  watching  her  sister's  rather 
cynical  exposure  of  the  family  tradition,  she  asked  her- 
self— in  face  of  the  said  exposure — what  to  her,  per- 
sonally, remained,  she  answered  that  Adrian  Savage 
remained.     And  thereupon  proceeded  with  all  the  inten- 

357 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

sity  and  pent-up  passion  of  her  morbidly  introspective 
nature  to  fling  herself  upon  the  thought  of  that  delightful 
young  man  and  his  matrimonial  intentions.  Hounding 
out  doubts,  furiously  repressing  misgivings,  she  grappled 
herself  to  belief  in  Adrian  with  hooks  of  iron,  chained 
herself  to  it  with  links  of  steel,  drank  from  the  well  of 
splendid  promise  which  it  offered  to  the  verge  of  in- 
ebriety. In  him  she  hailed  her  savior.  Adrian  would 
make  good  the  wasted  years.  Adrian  would  teach  her 
where  she  had  been  mistaken,  and  where  her  intelligence 
had  gone  astray.  Adrian  would  instruct  and  counsel 
her,  would  supply  her  with  a  rule  of  living  at  once  just 
and  distinguished.  Adrian  would  be  gentle  to  her  errors 
— had  he  not  shown  himself  so  already  on  more  than 
one  occasion? — would  be  sympathetic,  playful  and 
charming  even  in  merited  rebuke.  She  heard  his  voice 
once  again.  Saw  him,  in  his  habit  as  he  lived,  gallant, 
courteous,  eager  yet  debonair;  and  seeing,  her  poor 
heart  spilled  itself  upon  the  ground  like  water  at  his 
conquering  feet. 

Joanna  could  sit  still  no  longer.  Her  agitation  was 
too  vital,  too  overmastering.  She  left  the  chair  by  the 
window  and  began  to  roam  to  and  fro,  her  hands  pluck- 
ing at  the  pleatings  of  her  dress,  her  pale,  prominent 
eyes  staring  fixedly,  her  lips  parted,  her  expression  rapt. 

'"Because  thou  art  more  noble  and  like  a  king,"' 
she  quoted,  silently,  turning  to  the  sonnets  from  the 
Portuguese  for  adequate  expression  of  her  emotion. 
'"Thou  canst  prevail  against  my  fears  and  fling  thy 
purple  round  me.'" 

The  consequence  of  all  of  which  was  that  she  paid 
scant  attention  to  the  concluding  portion  of  her  sister's 
comprehensive  argument  in  favor  of  her  projected 
espousal  of  Joseph  Challoner,  and  only  awoke  from 
the  state  of  trance  induced  by  her  access  of  Adrian- 
worship  when  the  repetition  of  Margaret's  assertion  of 
the  violent  character  of  Challoner's  affection  and  the 

358 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

slightly  ambiguous  laugh  following  that  assertion  struck 
her  ear.  Then  she  turned  upon  the  speaker  with  the 
righteous  wrath  of  one  who  hears  sacred  words  put  to 
unworthy  uses. 

"Desperately  in  love?"  she  said  harshly.  "And  do 
you  intend  me  to  understand,  Margaret,  that  you 
are  desperately  in  love  with  Mr.  Challoner  in  re- 
turn?" 

"Oh  dear,  no!"  the  lady  addressed  replied  calmly 
enough.  "Though  if  I  were,  I  see  no  occasion  for  your 
scolding  me  about  it,  Nannie. — What  does  make  you  so 
restless  and  cross  to-night?  However,  if  you're  deter- 
mined to  be  uncomfortable,  I'm  not — so  I  shall  sit  down 
here  in  your  chair.  Did  you  see  the  lightning  then  ?  No, 
I'm  not  the  least  silly  about  Challoner ;  but  then  I  should 
be  very  sorry  to  be  silly  about  any  man.  I  don't  think 
it  dignified  for  a  woman  to  be  in  a  wild  state  of  mind 
about  her  fianct.  It's  not  nice.  I  like  Challoner  well 
enough  to  marry  him,  and  well  enough  not  to  mind 
his  making  love  to  me.  That's  quite  sufficient,  I 
think." 

Jealous  curiosity  pricked  Joanna.  She  stopped  in 
her  agitated  walk  and  stood  stretching  out  her  right 
hand  and  gazing  abstractedly  at  it. 

"What — what  precisely  do  you  mean  when  you  speak 
of  his  making  love  to  you,  Margaret  ?"  she  said,  in  a  thin, 
urgent  whisper. 

"  Really,  for  a  person  who  plumes  herself  upon  being 
particularly  refined  you  do  say  the  most  singular  things, 
Joanna!"  the  other  exclaimed,  laughing.  "You  can 
hardly  expect  me  to  go  into  details.  Making  love  is 
making  love." 

"Kissing  your  hand— do  you  mean?"  Joanna  gasped, 
in  awestruck  accents,  a  dry  sob  rising  in  her  throat. 

"  One's  hand  ?  Why,  anybody  might  kiss  one's  hand. 
Challoner's  proceedings,  I'm  afraid,  are  considerably 
more  unrestrained  than  that.     But  I  positively  can't  go 

359 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

into  details.  How  extraordinary  you  are,  Nannie! 
Doesn't  it  occur  to  you  there  are  questions  which  one 
doesn't  ask?" 

Streaks  of  pain  shot  across  the  back  of  Joanna's  right 
hand,  as  though  it  were  struck  again  and  again  with  a 
rod.  Moaning,  just  audibly,  she  thrust  it  within  the 
open  bosom  of  her  white  nigligS,  and  laid  her  left  hand 
upon  it,  fondling  it  as  one  striving  to  soothe  some  sorely 
wounded  creature. 

Margaret  leaned  back  in  the  easy-chair,  fingering  her 
little  fan,  a  sleekness,  a  suggestion  of  almost  animal 
content  in  her  expression  and  attitude. 

"No,  really  I  can't  explain  any  further,"  she  said, 
laughing  a  little.  "I'm  quite  hot  enough  as  it  is,  and  re- 
fuse to  make  myself  any  hotter.  You  must  wait  till  some- 
body makes  love  to  you,  I'm  afraid,  Nannie,  if  you  want 
to  know  exactly  what  the  process  consists  in.  An  object- 
lesson  would  be  necessary,  and  I  am  hardly  equal  to  sup- 
plying that." 

Joanna's  roamings  had  taken  her  as  far  as  the  door 
leading  on  to  the  gallery.  She  waited,  leaning  against 
it.  The  back  of  Margaret's  chair  was  toward  her,  so 
that  she  was  safe  from  observation.  For  this  she  was 
not  sorry,  as  the  pain  in  her  hand  was  acute,  particularly 
upon  the  spot  where  Adrian's  lips  had  once  touched  it. 
There  it  throbbed  and  smarted,  as  though  a  live  coal 
were  pressing  into  the  flesh.  Her  face  was  drawn 
with  suffering.  She  dreaded  to  have  her  sister  ask 
what  ailed  her.  But  that  young  lady's  thoughts 
were  quite  otherwise  engaged.  She  spoke  presently, 
over  her  shoulder.  Her  voice  sounded  curiously 
cozy. 

"This  evening,  when  he  said  good-by  to  me,  Challoner 
lifted  me  right  off  my  feet  when  he  was  kissing  me.  He 
had  never  done  so  before.  I  liked  it.  It  showed  how 
strong  he  is.  I  felt  a  wee  bit  nervous,  but  I  enjoyed  it 
too.     I  revel  in  his  strength.    My  ribs  ache  still.— There, 

360 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Nannie,  is  that  little  sample  of  love-making  illuminating 
enough  ?" 

And,  leaning  against  the  polished  surface  of  the 
door,  Joanna  shivered,  nursing  and  fondling  her  burn- 
ing hand. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN    WHICH   JOANNA    EMBRACES    A    PHANTOM    BUSS 

THE  obscure  psychological  relation  existing  between 
twins  necessarily  produces  either  peculiar  sym- 
pathy or  peculiar  opposition  of  tastes  and  sentiment. 
The  record  of  these  twin  sisters  was  of  the  discordant 
sort.  Unspoken  rivalry  and  jealousy  had  divided  them. 
Unconsciously,  yet  unremittingly,  they  had  struggled  for 
pre-eminence.  At  the  present  moment,  in  Joanna's  case 
these  feelings  combined  to  produce  a  sensation  approach- 
ing active  hatred.  As  she  leaned  shivering  against  her 
bedroom  door,  in  the  oppressive  warmth  of  the  summer 
night,  all  her  petty  griefs  and  grudges  against  her  more 
attractive  and  popular  sister  complained  in  chorus.  As  a 
child  Margaret  had  been  pretty  and  taking.  At  school, 
though  lazy  and  by  no  means  clever,  she  had  been  petted 
and  admired.  Such  affection  as  Montagu  Smyrthwaite 
was  capable  of  displaying  he  had  displayed  toward  her. 
"Margaret  was  sensitive,  Margaret  was  delicate" — 
which  meant  that  Margaret  knew  just  when  to  cry  loud 
enough  to  excite  pity;  just  when  to  announce  tiredness 
or  a  headache,  so  as  to  escape  unwelcome  exertion. 
She  had,  in  short,  reduced  the  practice  of  selfishness — so 
Joanna  thought — to  a  fine  art. 

And  now,  finally,  to-night,  not  timidly  with  disarming 
apology,  but  with  flaunting  assurance,  Margaret  dared 
to  infringe  her — Joanna's — copyright  in  the  wonder- 
story  of  a  man's  love,  thereby  capping  the  climax  of 
offense.  Her  transcript  of  the  said  story  might  be  of  the 
grosser  sort ;  yet  on  that  very  account  it  showed  the  more 

362 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

convincing.  No  misgivings,  no  agonized  suspense,  no 
tremulously  anxious  reading  between  the  lines,  were 
demanded.  It  was  printed  in  large  type,  and  in  language 
coarsely  vigorous  as  Joseph  Challoner  himself!  Morally 
it  repelled  Joanna,  although  inflaming  her  imagination 
with  vague  drivings  of  desire.  Her  whole  poor  being, 
indeed,  was  swept  by  conflicting  and  but  half-compre- 
hended passions,  from  amid  the  tempest  of  which  this 
one  thing  declared  itself  in  a  rising  scale  of  furious  in- 
sistence— namely,  that  Margaret  should  not  once  again 
best  her;  that  no  marriage  Margaret  might  elect  to  make 
should  endanger  her  own  marriage  with  Adrian  Savage; 
that  by  some  means,  any  means  fair  or  foul,  Margaret 
must  be  prevented  tasting  the  fullness  of  man's  love — 
never  mind  how  poor  an  edition  of  love  this  might  be, 
how  unpoetic,  how  vulgar — as  long  as  she,  Joanna,  was 
denied  love's  fullness.  Yet  so  deeply  were  tradition 
and  system  ingrained  in  her  that,  even  at  this  pass, 
she  paid  homage  to  their  ruling,  since  instead  of  mak- 
ing a  direct  attack,  and  owning  anger  as  the  cause  of 
it,  she  tricked  herself  with  a  fiction  of  moral  obliga- 
tion. 

"Margaret,"  she  began  presently  from  her  station  at 
the  door,  speaking  with  such  self-command  as  she  could 
muster,  "I  dislike  alluding  to  the  subject  very  much. 
No  doubt  you  will  be  annoyed  and  will  accuse  me  of 
interference;  still  there  is  something  I  feel  I  ought  to  say 
to  you.  If  I  do  not  say  it  now,  there  may  not  be  a  suit- 
able opportunity  later." 

"  Then  pray  say  it  now.  As  I  have  told  you,  I  want  to 
get  the  whole  thing  thoroughly  thrashed  out  to-night,  so 
that  we  may  avoid  odious  discussions  in  the  future.   What 

is  it,  Joanna?" 

"I  can't  help  observing  that  it  is  only  since  papa's 
death  Mr.  Challoner  has  paid  you  so  much  attention. 
Before  then — " 

Margaret  rose  and  faced  round  upon  the  speaker.  Her 
U  363 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

manner  remained  composed,  but  her  blue  eyes  held  the 
light  of  battle. 

"You  mean  it  is  not  me,  but  my  fortune,  Challoner  is 
in  love  with  ?  I  quite  expected  you  would  tell  me  that, 
Joanna,  sooner  or  later;  but  I  am  bound  to  say  it  is  not 
a  very  elegant  compliment  either  to  him  or  to  me." 

"I  did  not  intend  to  bring  such  an  accusation  against 
him,"  Joanna  protested.  "It  would  be  very  dreadful  to 
suppose  any  one's  affection,  any  one's  choice,  could  be 
seriously  influenced  by  the  fact  we  have  money." 

"I'm  afraid  my  views  are  less  romantic  than  yours. 
It  seems  to  me  quite  natural  money  should  prove  an 
attraction — particularly  in  cases  where  other  attractions 
are  rather  wanting." 

For  some  reason  Joanna  felt  the  stroke  of  a  rod  across 
her  hand  again.  The  pain  excited  her.  She  came  for- 
ward a  step  or  two. 

"  You  do  not  give  me  time  to  explain  myself,  Margaret. 
Before  papa's  death  Mr.  Challoner's  name  was  very  freely 
associated  with  that  of  Mrs.  Spencer.  Both  you  and 
Marion  Chase  spoke  of  an  engagement  between  them  as 
certain.  Others  spoke  of  it  also.  The  probability  of  a 
marriage  was  accepted.     I  cannot  forget  this." 

Margaret  laughed. 

"Really,  it's  too  funny  that  you  of  all  people  should 
champion  wretched  little  Mrs.  Spencer!  Why,  Joanna, 
you  invariably  intimated  she  was  quite  beneath  your 
notice,  and  have  lost  no  opportunity  of  snubbing  her. 
I've  had  to  be  nice,  more  than  once,  simply  because  I 
felt  so  awfully  ashamed  of  your  rudeness  to  her." 

"I  do  not  like  her.  She  is  unladylike.  Still  I  think 
Mr.  Challoner's  change  of  attitude  requires  explanation." 

" Do  you ?"  Margaret  retorted.  "Here  is  the  explana- 
tion then.  Simply  that  Challoner  is  too  kind-hearted  to 
save  himself  at  the  expense  of  a  woman,  even  when  she 
has  treated  him  badly.  He  told  me  all  about  her  months 
ago.     He  felt  I  had  better  hear  it  from  him,  but  he  did 

364 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

his  best  to  excuse  her.  He  showed  wonderfully  nice 
feeling  about  it  all.  I  was  not  prepared  for  his  being  so 
scrupulous,  and  it  made  me  admire  him.  For  she  is  the 
sort  of  person  who  spends  her  time  in  extracting  money 
and  presents  from  every  man  she  can  get  hold  of.  Chal- 
loner  admits  he  was  taken  in  by  her  at  first,  and  was 
foolishly  weak  with  her.  She  pretended  to  be  almost  pen- 
niless, and  worked  upon  his  feelings  so  much  that  he  let 
her  live  in  that  house  of  his  in  Silver  Chine  Road,  rent 
free,  for  nearly  two  years.  And  when  her  demands  be- 
came too  extortionate,  and  she  persecuted  him  so  dis- 
gracefully that  he  was  compelled  in  self-defense  to  get  rid 
of  her,  he  found  her  another  house  at  Marychurch,  and,  I 
believe,  pays  half  the  rent  of  it  for  her  still.  I  know  he 
gave  her  sister,  Beattie  Stacey — who  is  engaged  to  an 
officer  on  one  of  the  Cape  liners — a  beautifully  fitted 
traveling-bag  as  a  wedding  present.  Marion  saw  it  only 
last  week. — Those  are  the  facts,  Joanna.  I  hope  now 
your  conscience  is  easy." 

She  stood  looking  down,  pressing  back  an  upturned 
corner  of  the  rug,  upon  which  Joanna  had  knelt  earlier  in 
the  evening,  with  the  pointed  toe  of  her  beaded  slipper. 

"Of  course  I  sha'n't  receive  her,"  she  said.  "I  told 
Challoner  my  magnanimity  wouldn't  carry  me  as  far  as 
that  after  the  abominable  way  in  which  she's  exploited 
him.  All  the  same,  I'm  rather  grateful  to  the  wretched 
little  woman.  But  for  her  I  mightn't  have  known  how 
generous  Challoner  could  be.  I  really  believe  the  satis- 
faction of  rescuing  him  from  her  clutches  is  among  my 
chief  reasons  for  accepting  him — that,  and  then,  of 
course,  Cousin  Adrian  Savage." 

With  a  sort  of  rush  Joanna  came  close — the  violence 
of  some  half-starved  creature  in  her  pale  eyes,  her 
drawn  face  and  her  parted  lips. 

"Adrian?"  she  cried.  "Adrian?  What  possible  con- 
nection can  there  be  between  Cousin  Adrian  and  your 
engagement  to  Mr.  Challoner?" 

365 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

For  some  seconds  Margaret  Smyrthwaite  looked  hard 
and  thoughtfully  at  her  sister.  Then,  holding  the  skirt 
of  her  dress  aside,  she  pressed  the  upturned  corner  of  the 
rug  into  place  again  with  the  pointed  toe  of  her  slipper. 

"I  shall  be  so  thankful,"  she  said,  "when  you  give  up 
wearing  that  frightful  old  dressing-gown,  Nannie.  De- 
cidedly, it  is  not  as  clean  as  it  might  be,  and  it  looks  so 
horridly  stuffy.  I  never  have  understood  your  craze  for 
hoarding — " 

"But — but — Adrian?"  Joanna  insisted. 

"Adrian?  Surely  you  must  have  seen,  Nannie?  It's 
just  one  of  those  things  which  aren't  easy  to  put  into 
words,  but  which  I  should  have  thought  even  you  must 
have  grasped,  though  you  are  so  different  to  most  people. 
I  sometimes  have  wondered  lately,  though,  whether  you 
really  are  so  different  to  other  people,  or  whether  you're 
only  extraordinarily  secretive. — But,  naturally  having 
a  young  man  like  Cousin  Adrian  staying  so  long  in  the 
house  this  winter,  put  ideas  into  one's  head  and  made 
one  think  a  good  deal  about  marriage,  and  so  on.  I 
took  for  granted  papa  had  some  notion  of  that  kind 
when  he  appointed  Adrian  his  executor.  He  had  a 
great  opinion  of  him,  and  would  have  liked  him  as  a 
son-in-law — or  fancied  he  would.  Of  course  he  wanted 
to  bring  us  together — that  was  the  object  of  the 
appointment." 

"You  think  so?"  Joanna  questioned.  Joy,  anxious 
but  great,  arose  in  her. 

"  I  haven't  a  doubt  about  it.  All  the  same  I  couldn't, 
out  of  respect  for  papa's  wishes,  make  advances  to  a 
young  man  who  showed  quite  clearly  he  didn't  care  a  row 
of  pins  about  me." 

"He  was  always  kind  and  civil  to  you,  Margaret," 
Joanna  interrupted  restrainingly.  Jealousy  folded  its 
beating  wings,  betaking  itself  to  most  unaccustomed 
repose. 

"Civil  and  kind,  I  dare  say.  But — well,  of  course 
366 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

there  are  signs  one  can't  mistake,  unless  one  blinds  one- 
self wilfully  to  their  meaning." 

She  tossed  her  head,  her  eyes  hard  and  bright.  Joanna's 
expression  meanwhile  became  increasingly  ecstatic. 

"  Yes,  there  are  signs  one  cannot  mistake — signs  which 
it  would  be  weak  and  faithless  to  mistake,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

"I  don't  deny  I  felt  rather  enraged,"  Margaret  con- 
tinued, too  busy  with  her  own  vexation  to  remark  the 
other's  singular  aspect.  "  I  could  have  been  very  much 
upset  about  it  all  if  I  had  let  myself  go." 

"I  am  sorry,"  Joanna  murmured,  touched  by  unex- 
pected pity.     "Indeed,  Margaret,  I  am  sorry." 

"Oh,  you  weren't  to  blame  in  any  way,  Nannie.  And, 
you  see,  I  didn't  let  myself  go.  I  just  turned  my  atten- 
tion to  Challoner.  There  is  nothing  ambiguous  about  his 
admiration.  And  now" — she  glanced  curiously  at  her 
sister — "now,"  she  continued,  "as  things  have  turned 
out,  I'm  most  uncommonly  glad  I  didn't  allow  myself 
to  get  into  a  state  of  mind  about  Adrian." 

"As  things  have  turned  out? — I  understand.  I  am 
pleased  you  do  not  blame  me,  Margaret.  Yes,  as  things 
have  turned  out!"  Joanna  repeated  excitedly. 

For  here,  as  she  saw  it,  was  the  hour  of  her  triumph, 
of  assured  and  splendid  victory.  The  room  seemed  too 
small  to  hold  her  rapture.  Hardly  aware  of  that  which 
she  did,  she  brushed  past  her  sister — still  standing,  fan  in 
hand,  beside  the  chair  at  the  window — and  went  out  on 
to  the  balcony. 

She  required  to  be  alone,  so  as  to  savor  to  the  full  the 
heady  sweetness  of  her  own  emotion.  She  wanted  to 
forget  every  one,  everything,  save  that  only.  She 
wanted  to  abandon  herself  without  reserve  to  the 
thought  of  Adrian  Savage;  to  gloat  over  every  inci- 
dent of  her  intercourse  with  him,  and  project  her 
imagination  onward  to  the  closer,  the  continuous  and 
exclusive  intercourse  of  the  future.     For  had  not  Mar- 

067 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

garet's  confession — the  more  persuasive  because  re- 
luctantly made — amounted  to  an  admission  that 
Adrian's  affection  belonged  to  her,  and  to  her  only? 
Did  it  not  supply  reasonable  confirmation  of  her  sorely 
tried  faith  in  him,  and  ratify  all  her  hopes  by  setting 
the  seal  of  witness  upon  the  fact  of  his  love  for  her  ? 

Such  was  the  meaning  she  read  into  the  recent  con- 
versation, piecing  evidence  together  into  a  coherent 
whole.  Never  before  had  she  been  absolutely  certain. 
Now,  as  she  told  herself,  she  was  certain — could  safely 
be  so,  in  that  Margaret  had  admitted  the  fact,  if  not  in  so 
many  words,  yet  implicitly.  Her  father's  wish  and 
purpose  had  been  that  the  young  man  should  marry  one 
of  his  two  daughters — Margaret  had  perceived  this.  And 
she,  Joanna,  was  the  one  he  had  chosen,  thereby  justify- 
ing all  her  past  efforts  and  labors,  and  rehabilitating  the 
poor,  cynically  denuded  family  system  into  the  bargain. 
Was  not  the  whole  habit  and  conduct  of  her  life  vindi- 
cated, inasmuch  as  it  led  to  this  superb  result?  The 
years  had  not  been  wasted,  but  were,  on  the  contrary,  the 
patient  seed-time  of  this  welcome  harvest.  She  had  been 
right  from  the  first,  right  in  every  particular,  so  that  not 
upon  her  or  her  methods,  but  upon  those  who  differed  from, 
undervalued,  or  slighted  her  rested  the  onus  of  proof. 
And  here  the  intellectual  and  moral  arrogance  latent  in 
Joanna  Smyrthwaite's  nature  upheaved  itself  mightily 
and  stood  aggressively  erect.  Overweening  self-esteem, 
as  on  giant  wings,  sustained  her.  For  to  such  disastrous 
inflations  of  pride  are  introspective  persons  liable  when 
they  fail — as  they  do  so  frequently  fail — to  discriminate 
between  deeds  and  emotions,  between  the  barren  power 
to  feel  and  the  fertile,  the  life-giving  power  to  act !  Of 
all  traps  set  by  Satan  for  the  catching  of  souls,  the  trap  of 
"feelings"  is  perhaps  the  wiliest  and  the  worst.  And 
into  this  trap  poor  Joanna  walked,  head  in  air,  care- 
less of  consequence.  She  felt  deified,  lifted  above  the 
crawling,  common  ways  of  common  men,  defiant  of  all 

368 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

opposition,  all  criticism;  since,  being  the  chosen  and 
desired  of  him  whom  she  so  dotingly  worshiped,  she 
became  an  object  worthy  of  worship  in  and  to  her- 
self. 

And  the  night — playing  into  the  devil's  hands  some- 
what, as  at  times  the  aspects  of  Nature  will — in  its  wind- 
less silence  and  opaque,  hot  darkness,  appeared  queerly 
reflective  of  and  sympathetic  to  Joanna's  mood  of  porten- 
tous self -exaltation.  The  planes  rather  than  the  forms  of 
all  which  composed  the  scene  were  perceptible.  Joanna's 
eyes  detected  the  slope  of  the  veranda  roof  immediate- 
ly beneath  the  balcony,  the  flat  outspread  of  the  gar- 
dens and  lawns,  and  the  vertical  palisade  of  lofty  trees 
encircling  them;  but  no  single  object  detached  itself — 
all  were  fused  by  and  soaked  in  that  thick  broth  of 
thunder-smoke .  And  this  heated  obscurity  she  welcomed, 
because  it  ministered  to  the  sense  of  solitude  and  of 
aloofness  which  she  craved.  Nothing  visible  interfered 
to  distract  her  attention  from  herself  and  the  thought  of 
her  high  destiny.  Only  once  or  twice  the  sky  opened, 
for  the  distant  storm  had  moved  westward,  striking  the 
black  canopies"of  the  firs,  their  stems  and  many  branches, 
into  vivid  and  instantaneous  relief,  while  behind  and 
above  them,  midway  to  the  zenith,  lightning  licked  and 
flickered  like  some  miracle  of  soundless,  sardonic 
laughter  playing  over  the  livid  features  of  a  corpse  nine 
days  dead. 

It  was  in  the  moment  of  one  such  disquieting  celestial 
display  that  Margaret  Smyrthwaite,  stifling  an  audible 
yawn,  strolled  on  to  the  balcony.  She  had  gathered  up 
her  magazines  and  papers  again,  and  tucked  them  under 
her  arm. 

"If  you  don't  intend  to  come  in  and  talk  any  more, 
Nannie,"  she  said,  rather  irritably,  "  I  may  as  well  go.  I'm 
getting  frightfully  sleepy,  and  I've  promised  Challoner 
to  motor  him  over  to  Weymouth  to-morrow.  We  make 
an  early  start.     Too,  Marion's  sure  to  be  waiting  to  hear 

369 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

how  my  talk  with  you  has  gone  off,  and  I've  a  conscience 
about  keeping  her  up  any  longer. — Now,  you  do  quite 
understand,  don't  you,  that  I  am  going  to  marry  Chal- 
loner,  and  that  opposition  is  absolutely  no  good?  It 
would  look  ever  so  much  better,  and  be  so  very  much 
more  comfortable  for  every  one  concerned,  if  you  could 
only  make  up  your  mind  to  be  nice  about  it.  You're 
always  saying  how  you  hate  people  talking  over  our 
affairs.  Why  give  them  occasion  to  talk  then  by  being 
disagreeable  and  contrary  about  a  thing  which  is  really 
no  business  of  yours,  and  which  you  are  quite  powerless 
to  prevent?" 

Contemptuously  Joanna  turned  from  contemplation  of 
that  strangely  flickering  sky  and  contemplation  of  her 
own — subjective — glory.  She  resented  the  intrusion  of 
Margaret,  with  her  perfumes  and  fashion  papers,  her 
complacent  utilitarianism,  her  motor-car  and  underbred 
lover;  but  resented  it  half-pityingly,  as  the  weakness  of 
an  inferior  being  behaving  according  to  the  manner  of 
its  kind. 

"I  may  be  powerless  to  prevent  your  marriage,"  she 
said,  "  still  I  most  deeply  object  to  it.  I  cannot  do  other- 
wise. I  consider  it  unsuitable  and  most  unfortunate. 
I  cannot  disguise  from  myself  that  it  will  stand  between 
us  in  the  future  and  render  intercourse  difficult.  There 
can  be  little  sympathy  between  two  persons  whose  aims 
and  interests  are  as  far  apart  as  yours  and  mine  must 
inevitably  be.  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  mention  this  to 
you,  Margaret,  although  I  know  that  I  have  ceased  to 
exercise  any  influence  over  you.  It  is  all  very  sad.  It 
is  painful  to  me  that  you  should  repudiate  our  parents' 
teaching,  all  the  more  painful  because  I  never  under- 
stood as  fully  as  I  now  do  how  noble  that  teaching  is, 
and  how  much  it  has  done  to  form  my  character  and 
tastes,  thus  preparing  me  for  the  position  and  duties  to 
which  I  am  called." 

She  drew  her  breath  sharply,  raising  her  hands  to  her 
37° 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

forehead,  greatly  moved  by  the  thought  of  that  high 
calling. 

"This  for  us  is  the  parting  of  the  ways,  Margaret," 
she  added,  a  singular  effect  of  dramatic  tension  in  her 
manner,  her  pale  ungracious  face  and  figure  against 
the  red-brick  background  of  the  house-front,  momen- 
tarily illuminated  by  a  swift  amazement  of  lightning 
rippling  and  shuddering  behind  the  fir-trees  in  the 
west.  "The  parting  of  the  ways,"  she  repeated.  "You 
go  yours,  I  mine.  I  deplore  your  choice.  Can  I  do 
otherwise,  seeing  how  different  my  own  prospects  are  ? 
But  as,  after  due  consideration,  you  have  made  that 
choice,  all  further  argument  must,  I  fear,  be  wasted 
upon  you." 

"Very  well,  then — there's  an  end  of  the  matter." 

As  she  spoke  Margaret  crossed  the  balcony,  and,  lean- 
ing upon  the  balustrade,  looked  down  into  the  gloom- 
shrouded  garden.  The  candle-light  streaming  outward 
through  the  open  window  touched  her  shapely  back  and 
shoulders,  and  her  bright,  curled  and  folded,  auburn  hair. 

"There's  an  end  of  it,  then,"  she  repeated  coldly,  rather 
bitterly.  "We  agree  to  part.  You  might  easily  have 
been  kinder  and  nicer  to  me;  but  I  bear  you  no  ill-will. 
I  suppose  you  can't  help  being  disagreeable.  Certainly 
it's  nothing  new. — Only,  Nannie,  though  I  don't  want  to 
upset  you  or  make  a  quarrel,  there  is  something  I  should 
like  to  be  quite  clear  about,  because,  I  own,  I've  been 
half  afraid  lately  that  you  were  getting  yourself  into  a 
silly  state  over  Adrian  Savage." 

She  stood  upright,  looking  full  at  Joanna. 

"I  know  you've  corresponded  with  him  a  good  deal, 
so,  of  course,  you  may  know  already.  Colonel  Haig 
told  me.  He  met  her  in  Paris,  on  his  way  to  Carlsbad, 
and  was  awfully  smitten  with  her.  Has  Cousin  Adrian 
ever  spoken  to  you  about  Madame  St.  Leger?" 

Silence  followed.  A  distinct  menace  was  perceptible 
in  Joanna's  tone  when  she  at  last  answered. 

37i 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"  I  have  never  attempted  to  force  myself  into  Adrian's 
confidence.  To  do  so  would  be  the  worst  possible  taste 
under  existing  circumstances.  I  should  never  dream  of 
asking  him  questions  regarding  his — his  former  friends." 

"Then  you  don't  know  about  Madame  St.  Leger, 
Nannie?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  nor  have  I  the  least  wish  to  hear  any- 
thing respecting  any  acquaintance  of  Adrian's,  except 
what  he  himself  may  choose  to  tell  me." 

Joanna  spoke  violently,  her  back  against  the  wall,  both 
in  the  literal  and  figurative  sense. 

"That's  all  very  proper,  but  I  really  think  you  ought 
to  hear  this.  In  the  end  it  may  save  everybody  a 
lot  of  misunderstanding  and  worry.  I'm  pretty  sure 
Colonel  Haig  meant  me  to  pass  the  information  on  to 
you.     That  was  why  he  told  me." 

Joanna  stretched  her  arms  out  on  either  side,  the  palms 
of  her  hands  toward  the  wall.  As  her  fingers  worked, 
opening  and  closing,  her  nails  gritted  upon  the  rough 
surface  of  the  brick. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  anything,  Margaret,  not  any- 
thing," she  repeated  vehemently. 

"  But  evidently  there's  no  secret  about  this  whatever. 
Every  one,  so  Haig  says,  knows  the  whole  story  in  Paris. 
The  affair  has  been  going  on  for  ever  so  long ;  only  until 
Madame  St.  Leger's  husband  died,  of  course,  there 
couldn't  be  any  question  of  marriage.  I  don't  mean  to 
imply  the  smallest  harm.  Haig  says  there  never  has 
been  the  slightest  scandal.  But  her  husband  was  years 
and  years  her  senior,  and  she  is  very  beautiful — Haig 
raves  about  her.  I  have  never  heard  him  so  enthusiastic 
over  any  one.     And  he  was  told  Adrian  has  been  in — " 

"  I  refuse  to  hear  anything  more.  I  will  not,  Margaret 
— no — no — I  will  not.  This  is  a  wicked  fabrication.  I 
do  not  believe  it.  It  is  not  true,  I  tell  you — it  is  not 
true,"  Joanna  panted,  her  finger-nails  tearing  at  the 
brickwork. 

372 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"But  what  possible  object  could  Haig  have  in  repeat- 
ing the  story  if  it  wasn't  true  ?  I'm  awfully  sorry  to  put 
you  in  such  a  fuss,  Nannie,  but  Haig  believes  it  impli- 
citly himself.  There  isn't  the  least  doubt  of  that. 
And  when  one  comes  to  think,  it  does  explain  Adrian's 
behavior  when  he  was  with  us.  One  sees,  of  course, 
how  improbable  it  is  that  a  young  man  like  him  should 
not  have  some  attachment  which — " 

Joanna  quitted  the  sheltering  wall,  and  came  toward 
the  speaker,  holding  up  her  hands — the  finger-tips  frayed 
and  reddened — with  a  threatening  gesture. 

"Go  away,  Margaret!"  she  cried  passionately.  "Go 
away!  Leave  me  alone — you  had  much  better.  This 
story  is  false — it  is  false,  I  tell  you.  And  I  forbid  you  to 
repeat  it.  I  will  not  listen.  I  will  not  have  it  said. 
Go — or  I  may  do  something  dreadful  to  you.  Go — and 
never  speak  to  me  again  about  this — never  dare  to  do  so 
— never — never — do  you  hear?" 

"  Really, you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Nannie," 
the  other  protested,  half  angry,  half  frightened.  "I'm 
positively  astonished  at  your  making  such  an  exhibition 
of  yourself — " 

But  Joanna  laid  hold  of  her  by  the  shoulders,  and 
pushed  her  back  forcibly  through  the  open  window,  into 
the  center  of  the  quiet,  softly  lighted  room. 

"Take  your  candle  and  go,"  she  said,  and  her  face 
was  terrible,  forbidding  argument  or  rebuke.  "  This  is  a 
wicked  falsehood,  concocted  by  some  jealous  person  who 
is  trying  to  alienate  Adrian's  affection  from  me.  Who 
that  person  is  I  do  not  know.  I  had  better  not  know. 
It  is  all  very  cruel,  very  dreadful ;  but  I  want  no  explana- 
tions, or  questions,  or  advice.  Above  all  I  want  no 
sympathy.  I  only  want  to  be  alone.— And  I  warn  you, 
Margaret,  if  you  ever  betray  what  has  happened  here 
to-night  I  will  take  my  own  life.  I  shall  be  certain  to 
find  you  out  sooner  or  later,  and  I  will  not  survive  be- 
trayal, so  my  death  will  lie  at  your  door.     Remember 

373 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

that,  if  you  are  tempted  to  gossip  about  me  with  Mr. 
Challoner  or  Marion  Chase. — And  now,  pray,  go  away, 
and  leave  me  to  myself.  That  is  all  I  ask  of  you.  Don't 
call  Isherwood  and  send  her  to  me.  I  want  nothing — 
nobody.  If  she  came  I  should  not  let  her  in.  Go  away 
— here  is  your  candle — go  away  and  leave  me  alone!" 

Joanna  locked  the  door  behind  her  sister,  came  back 
to  the  middle  of  the  room  and  stood  there  motionless,  her 
arms  stiffly  extended.  She  had  no  words,  no  thoughts, 
but  an  ache  through  mind  and  body  of  blank  misery,  at 
once  incomprehensible  and  deadening  from  its  very  com- 
pleteness. Presently  she  blew  out  the  lights.  They 
irritated  her  as  showing  her  definite  objects,  her  own 
reflection  in  the  cheval  glass  beside  the  dressing-table, 
her  diary  and  silver  writing-set  upon  the  slab  of  the  open 
bureau,  all  the  ornaments  and  fittings  of  her  bedroom. 
She  called  on  the  darkness  to  cover  her,  and  to  cover 
these  things  also,  blotting  remembrance  of  them  out. 
She  needed  to  make  her  loneliness  more  lonely,  her 
solitude  more  unmitigated  and  absolute. 

An  intolerable  restlessness  seized  on  her.  She  began 
to  range  blindly,  aimlessly,  to  and  fro.  More  than  once 
she  knocked  against  some  angle  or  outstanding  piece  of 
furniture,  bruising  herself;  but  she  was  hardly  sensible 
of  pain.  At  last,  treading  upon  the  trailing  fronts  of  her 
pleated  ntglige,  she  stumbled,  fell  her  length,  face  down- 
ward, and  lay  exhausted  for  a  time;  then  slowly  drag- 
ging herself  into  a  sitting  position,  she  remained  there, 
massed  together  stupidly,  upon  the  floor — while,  through 
the  large,  well-ordered,  soberly  luxurious  house,  the 
clocks  chimed  the  hours  and  half-hours,  to  be  answered 
by  the  chime  of  the  stable  clock  out  of  doors. 

As  the  night  drew  toward  morning  the  lightning  be- 
came faint  and  infrequent  behind  the  fir-trees  in  the  west, 
for  the  drought  still  held  and  the  refreshment  of  rain 
would  not  be  yet.  But  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn  a  cool 
breathing  of  wind  came  up  from  the  sea.     Then,  for  a 

374 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

minute  or  so,  the  great  woodland  stirred,  finding  its  lost 
voice;  and  the  tree-tops  swayed,  singing  together  to  hail 
the  sun-rising  and  the  coming  day. 

The  cool  draught  of  air  sweeping  in  at  the  still  open 
window  aroused  Joanna  somewhat  from  her  stupor.  In 
the  broadening  light  she  looked  about  her.  The  room 
was  in  disorder — chairs  pushed  aside,  a  table  thrown 
down,  well-bound  books,  fragments  of  a  gold  and 
glass  bowl,  sprigs  of  lemon  verbena  and  fading  roses,  the 
wallet  in  which  she  kept  Adrian  Savage's  letters  lying 
open,  alongside  its  contents,  scattered  broadcast  upon 
the  ground. 

Joanna  stared  at  these  treasured  possessions  apatheti- 
cally. She  put  up  her  hands  to  push  back  her  hair, 
which  hung  down  in  heavy  strands  over  her  face  and 
shoulders.  Her  fingers  felt  sticky.  They  pricked  and 
smarted.  She  examined  them.  The  nails  were  nicked 
and  jagged,  in  places  the  tips  were  raw. 

"I  will  wait  until  they  have  healed,"  she  said  half 
aloud  in  her  thin,  toneless  voice,  "then  I  will  write  to 
Adrian  and  ask  him  if  it  is  true.  But  I  must  wait  till 
they  are  healed,  I  think.  Now  I  had  better  sleep.  There 
is  nothing  else  left  for  me  to  do." 

She  staggered  to  her  feet,  walked  unsteadily  across 
the  intervening  space  and  threw  herself,  unkempt  and 
half-dressed  as  she  was,  upon  the  fine  embroidered  linen 
sheets  and  delicate  lace  coverlet  of  the  satin  wood  bed. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"come  unto  these  yellow  sands" 

"  A  THOUSAND  times  welcome,  my  dear  Savage!" 
f\  Anastasia  Beauchamp  cried,  taking  Adrian's 
hand  in  both  hers  and  looking  up  at  him  affec- 
tionately from  beneath  a  broad-brimmed  brown  hat 
crowned  by  a  positive  vineyard  of  purple  and  white 
glass  grapes  and  autumn  foliage,  the  whole  inwrapped 
cloudily  in  a  streaming  blue  gauze  veil.  "You  have 
played  the  good  Samaritan  quite  long  enough  in  my 
opinion,  and  it's  high  time  you  bestowed  some  atten- 
tion upon  the  rest  of  us,  though  we  are  neither  insane 
nor  conspicuously  immoral.  And  here  we  all  are,  that's 
to  say,  all  of  us  who  matter,  in  this  really  quite  tidy, 
comfortable  hotel,  plus  the  amiable  family  Bernard, 
my  devoted,  despised  little  Byewater  and  his  compatriot 
Lenty  B.  Stacpole — note  the  inevitable  transatlantic 
initial,  I  beseech  you!  Clever,  excellent  fellows  both  of 
them,  though  a  trifle  slight  temperamentally.  And  here, 
to  complete  our  circle,  you  arrive  as  the  God  in  the  Car." 

Anastasia's  smile  bore  effective  testimony  to  her 
appreciation  of  Adrian's  handsome  looks  and  gallant 
bearing. 

"Yes,  very  much  the  God  in  the  Car,  my  dear  boy," 
she  repeated.  "You  are  the  picture  of  health.  Playing 
the  good  Samaritan,  it  must  be  conceded,  hasn't  dam- 
aged you. — And  I  honestly  believe,  though  I  won't  swear 
to  it  for  fear  of  committing  an  indiscretion,  that  every 
one,  every  one,  mind  you — save  possibly  our  excellent 
Americans,  to  whom  your  near  neighborhood  may  re- 

376 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

veal  their  own  temperamental  deficiencies— will  be  as 
genuinely  happy  to  see  you  as  I  am  myself." 

"Kindest  and  most  sympathetic  of  friends,"  Adrian 
returned,  touched  both  by  her  words  and  warmth  of 
manner,  "how  inexpressibly  good  you  are  to  me!" 

'*  I  only  pay  an  old  debt.  Your  mother  was  good  to 
me  once— well— "  She  caught  at  an  end  of  her  stream- 
ing veil  and  brought  it  to  anchor  under  her  chin. 
"Well — when  I  stood  in  need  of  a  wise  and  sweet 
counselor  very  badly.  And  I  never  forget.  Gratitude 
can  be — mind,  I  don't  say  it  always  is,  but  it  can  be — a 
very  delightful  sentiment  to  entertain. — But  now  you 
are  expiring  for  a  detailed  account  of  a  certain  dear 
lady.  At  this  moment  she  is  down  on  the  beach  with 
the  rest  of  our  company.  They  will  be  back  shortly  for 
tea.  So  come  here  with  me  on  to  the  piazza  while  we 
wait  for  them,  and  I'll  give  you  all  the  news  I  can." 

Adrian,  the  brave  song  of  the  engines  still  in  his  ears, 
his  eyes  still  dazzled  by  the  seventy-mile  rush  along  the 
white  roads  of  the  rich  and  pleasant  Norman  country, 
followed  Miss  Beauchamp  and  her  somewhat  Baccha- 
nalian headgear  from  the  large,  light-colored  hotel 
saloon  into  the  arcade,  found  her  a  comfortable  seat, 
and  stationed  himself  beside  her. 

From  thence  he  commanded  a  comprehensive  view  of 
the  opposite  side  of  the  shallow  valley,  dotted  with  mod- 
est green -shuttered  villas  and  rustic  chalets  set  in  ledges  of 
roughly  terraced  garden.  Of  the  rutted  road,  bordered  by 
elms  and  sycamores,  leading  down  from  the  fertile  up- 
lands through  the  straggling  gray  village  of  Ste.  Marie  to 
the  shore.  Of  the  high  chalk  cliffs  forming  the  headland, 
which  closed  the  view  westward,  and  the  quarter-mile- 
wide  sweep  of  grass  running  up  the  back  of  it,  stunted, 
bronzed  oak  and  thorn  thickets  filling  in  the  rounded 
hollows.  Of  the  curving  beach,  its  rows  of  gaily  painted 
wooden  bathing-cabins,  and  chairs  arranged  in  friendly 
groups   along  the   fore-shore   occupied    by  women  in 

377 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

airy  summer  costumes, — their  docile  men-kind,  assisted 
in  some  cases  by  white-capped  nurses,  dealing  mean- 
while with  a  slightly  turbulent  infant  population  upon 
the  near  shingle  and  the  dark  mussel  and  seaweed 
covered  reef  of  rocks  just  below. 

Upon  that  same  friendly  grouping  of  chairs  Adrian's 
glance  directed  itself  eagerly,  seeking  a  feminine  presence 
acutely  interesting  to  him,  but  without  result.  Open 
parasols  and  hats  of  brobdingnagian  proportions  ren- 
dered their  charming  owners  practically  invisible.  Wist- 
fully he  relinquished  the  search.  Then,  looking  at  the 
scene  as  a  whole,  his  poetic  sense  was  fired  by  the  spacious- 
ness and  freedom  of  the  expanse  of  gleaming  sands  for 
which  Ste.  Marie  is  celebrated.  Furrowed  in  places  and 
edged  by  rare  traceries  of  blue  shadow,  traversed  by 
sparkling  blue-green  waterways,  interspersed  with  broad, 
smooth  lagoons — where  the  rather  overdefined  forms  of 
pink-armed,  pink-legged  bathers,  clad  in  abbreviated 
garments,  swam,  splashed,  and  floated  —  the  sands 
ranged  out  under  a  translucent  clearness  of  early  after- 
noon sunshine  to  the  first  glinting  ripples  of  the  gently 
inflowing  tide.  Farther  still,  along  the  horizon,  the 
solid  blue  of  the  intervening  belt  of  deep  sea  melted,  by 
imperceptible  gradations,  into  low-lying  tracts  of  fur- 
rowed, semi-transparent  opaline  cloud. 

Those  gold  and  silver  shimmering  levels,  washed  by 
and  rimmed  with  heavenly  blue,  commanded  Adrian's 
imagination.  He  found  the  strong  air  sweet  to  breathe, 
the  keen  scent  of  the  brine  pleasant  to  his  nostrils.  Dis- 
ease, age,  death,  and  kindred  ugly  concomitants  of 
human  experience  lost  their  vraisemblance  and  mean- 
ing. Only  glad  and  gracious  things  were  credible.  These 
in  multitude  innumerable ;  and  along  with  them,  mak- 
ing audible  the  note  of  pathos  without  which  even  per- 
fect beauty  still  lacks  perfection,  the  haunting  solici- 
tation of  the  Beyond  and  of  the  Unattained,  forever 
beckoning  the  feet  of  man  onward  with  the  promise  of 

378 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

stranger  and  more  noble  joys  hidden  from  him  as  yet 
within  the  womb  of  the  coming  years. 

Whereupon  Anastasia  Beauchamp,  divining  in  some 
sort  the  trend  of  her  companion's  meditations,  pro- 
ceeded to  pat  him  genially  upon  the  arm. 

"My  dear  young  god,  'come  down  off  that  roof  right 
away,'  as  little  Bye  water  would  put  it,  and  listen  to  my 
recital  of  sordid  domestic  woes  recently  suffered  by  our 
belle  Gabrielle." 

Adrian  became  practical,  his  nose  at  once  pugnacious 
and  furiously  busy,  on  the  instant. 

"Great  heavens!"  he  exclaimed,  "who  has  dared  to 
offer  her  annoyance?" 

"Mice,  my  dear  Savage,  beetles,  and,  to  be  quite  plain 
with  you,  drains.  Yes,  you  may  well  make  a  grimace. 
That  mild-looking  little  chalet  yonder  across  the  valley 
— the  one  with  the  parterre  of  marigolds — which  she  had 
rented  without  preliminary  inspection,  proved  a  veritable 
pest-house.  When  I  arrived  in  July — mainly  with  a 
view  to  safeguarding  your  interests,  since  frankly  I  hold 
most  seaside  places  in  abhorrence — " 

"How  can  I  ever  be  sufficiently  grateful  to  you!"  the 
young  man  murmured  fervently. 

"I  have  no  child — and — perhaps,  at  my  age,  even  the 
ghost,  even  the  fiction,  of  motherhood  is  better  than 
nothing. — But  this  is  a  digression — sentimental  or  scien- 
tific, which?  To  return.  I  found  Madame  Vernois 
nervous  and  debilitated,  little  Bette  with  a  temperature 
and  sore  throat,  the  indispensable  maid  Henriette 
drowned  in  tears  and  sulks,  and  our  poor,  beautiful 
Gabrielle  in  a  most  admired  distraction." 

Harrowed  by  which  description,  her  hearer  gave  way 
to  smothered  imprecations. 

"Exactly.     At  the  time  I  too  made  little  remarks. 
Then  I  sniffed  once — twice.     Twice  was  quite  sufficient. 
Better  sacrifice  a  month's  rent  than  be  poisoned.     With- 
out ceremony  I  bundled  them  over  here,  bag  and  bag- 
25  '    379 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

gage,  since  when,  dear  creatures,  they  flourish.  The 
Bernards,  who  had  taken  the  villa  next  door  to  the  pest- 
house,  also  had  cause  for  dissatisfaction.  They  joined 
us.  This  addition  to  our  party  I  could  have  dispensed 
with.  I  entertain  the  highest  respect  for  M.  Bernard's 
acquirements,  only  I  could  wish  he  had  learned  early  in 
life  that  imparting  information  and  making  conversation 
are  by  no  means  synonymous.  Never  am  I  alone  with 
him  for  over  five  minutes  but  he  positively  lapidates  me 
with  the  remains  of  the  architectural  past.  Conversation 
should  be  interchange  of  opinions,  ideas,  experiences,  not 
a  bombardment  with  facts  which  one  is  perfectly  com- 
petent to  read  up  for  oneself  if  one's  a  mind  to.  Should 
you  ever  be  tempted  to  start  a  hobby — we  none  of  us 
know  what  we  may  come  to! — avoid  archaeology,  my 
dear  Savage,  I  implore  you,  out  of  retrospective  tender- 
ness for  my  sufferings  during  the  last  few  weeks !  Yes — 
and  then  I  must  record  one  truly  alarming  episode. 
The  great  Zelie  and  a  horde  of  her  nauseating  adherents 
threatened  a  descent  upon  Madame  St.  Leger.  Promptly 
I  engaged  all  the  vacant  rooms  in  the  hotel — fortunately 
they  weren't  very  numerous — until  the  peril  was  over- 
past." 

"You  are  not  only  the  kindest  and  the  most  superb  of 
friends,  but  you  are  a  great  general.  You  should  com- 
mand armies,"  Adrian  declared.  "Forever  shall  arch- 
aeology be  anathema  to  me !" 

"Saving  the  proposed  raid  of  the  objectionable  Z£lie, 
our  history  has  been  of  the  simplest,"  Anastasia  con- 
tinued. "People,  pleasant  and  unpleasant,  have  come 
and  gone;  we  remain — and  there's  the  sum  total  of  it. 
Now  tell  me  about  yourself.     How  long  do  we  keep  you  ?" 

"Alas,  only  until  this  evening.  I  must  go  back  to 
Rouen,  where  my  letters  await  me.  We  have  been 
moving  daily  from  place  to  place,  as  inclination  suggested. 
To-morrow  I  must  rejoin  Rene-  Dax — for  a  few  days,  a 
week  probably,  to  observe  how  the  new  treatment  pros- 

380 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

pers.  It  is  decided  that  he  shall  remain  in  the  country- 
house,  near  Caen,  of  an  intelligent  young  doctor  who  has 
been  in  attendance  upon  him  during  our  touring.  His 
man-servant,  of  course,  is  with  him.  And  there  he  can 
also  have  his  pet  animals." 

"Will  he  recover?" 

Adrian  raised  his  shoulders  and  spread  out  his  hands. 

"God  knows!"  he  answered.  "He  is  quite  gentle, 
quite  tractable.  At  moments  he  is  irresistibly  enter- 
taining. On  his  good  days  he  composes  little  poems  of 
an  exquisite  fancifulness  and  fragility — iridescent  flow- 
ers as  of  spun  glass.  But  whether  he  will  ever  draw  or 
paint  again  is  an  open  question." 

"It  is  pathetic,"  Miss  Beauchamp  put  in  musingly. 
"What  a  sequel  to  his  extravagant  popularity!" 

And  both  lapsed  into  silence,  looking  out  across  the 
immense  expanse  of  gleaming  sands.  Adrian  was  the 
first  to  speak.     He  did  so  with  uncertain  hesitation. 

"You  said  it  was  high  time  I  came,  tres  chere  Made- 
moiselle. Does  that  imply  that  I  have  stayed  away  too 
long  ?  I  feared  to  be  precipitate,  lest  I  might  appear  to 
take  unfair  advantage  of  the — " 

"The  studio  escapade — precisely." 

"  And  employ  it  to  further  my  own  interests.  On  that 
account  I  have  resolutely  effaced  myself.  To  do  so  has 
constituted  a  severe  penance;  but  to  do  otherwise 
would,  in  my  opinion,  have  shown  an  odious  lack  of 
imagination  and  of  delicacy." 

"  I  venture  to  doubt  whether  in  affairs  of  the  heart 
delicacy  has  not  more  miscarriages  of  happiness  to  an- 
swer for  than  precipitancy!  The  word  too  much,  as 
between  man  and  woman,  is  more  easily  forgiven  than 
the  word  too  little." 

"It  is  inconceivable,"  Adrian  broke  out  hotly,  all  of 
a  fume  and  a  fluster,  "that  Madame  St.  Leger  should 
mistake  my  motives." 

"Take  it  from  me,  my  dear  Savage,"  Anastasia  re- 
38i 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

plied,  with  a  finely  humorous  smile,  "that  exactly  in 
proportion  as  a  woman  is  indifferent  is  she  just  and 
clear-sighted.  Let  her  care  for  one  of  you  tiresome  male 
creatures  ever,  yes,  ever  so  little,  and  those  praiseworthy 
qualities  suffer  instant  suspension.  Reason  and  proba- 
bility pick  up  their  petticoats  and  scuttle.  She  devel- 
ops a  positively  inordinate  ingenuity  in  misconstruction 
and  mistake." 

Adrian  turned  an  eagerly  inquiring  countenance  upon 
the  speaker,  his  whole  soul  in  his  eyes. 

"  But,  dearest,  most  deeply  valued  friend,  tell  me,  tell 
me,  may  I  believe  that  she  does  then  care?" 

And  asking  it  he  bared  his  head,  instinctively  doing 
homage  to  that  most  lovely  idea.  Miss  Beauchamp's 
smile  changed  in  character,  softening  to  a  sweetness 
which  held  something  of  relinquishment  and  farewell. 

"Ah!  the  good  years,  the  good  years,"  she  said, 
"when  love  and  all  the  world  is  young ! — May  you  believe 
that  she  cares,  my  dear  boy  ?  Well,  without  its  being 
the  least  unnatural,  she  very  well  might  care,  I  fancy. 
But  you  really  must  find  that  out  for  yourself.  Listen 
— the  chirruping  of  the  children.     Here  they  all  come." 

She  rose  and  went  forward;  and  Adrian,  an  odd 
tingling  sensation  in  his  blood,  went  forward  too  and 
stood  beside  her  under  the  central  arch  of  the  arcade 
watching  the  little  procession  winding  its  way  by  the 
rough  path  up  the  broken  grass  slope  from  the  beach. 

First,  slender-legged,  short-kilted,  fresh  as  flowers, 
frisking  lambkin-like  and  chattering  in  high-pitched, 
clear  little  voices,  came  Bette  and  her  two  little  friends. 
Next  M.  Bernard,  dignified,  serious,  robust,  wearing 
light-brown  tweeds,  Panama  in  hand,  decidedly  warm, 
expounding,  recounting,  archaglogically  dilating  to 
Madame  Vernois — refined,  fragile,  dressed  in  black — who 
leaned  upon  his  arm.  At  a  little  distance  Madame  Ber- 
nard, small,  fair-haired,  neat-featured,  pretty,  inclining 
to  stoutness,  her   person  rigorously  controlled  by  the 

382 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

last  word  in  corsets  and  clothed  in  the  last  word  of 
mauve  linen  costumes  and  mauve  and  white  hats.  She 
was  not  an  ardent  pedestrian,  and  mounted  laboriously 
with  the  help  of  a  long-handled  parasol,  uttering  re- 
proachful little  ejaculations  and  complaints  the  while 
for  the  benefit  of  the  two  young  Americans,  who,  good- 
naturedly  loaded  up  with  the  ladies'  folding  chairs,  rugs 
and  cushions,  followed  close  behind. 

And  there,  apparently,  was  an  end  of  the  procession. 
Whereupon  Adrian  turned  to  Anastasia  with  a  deeply 
injured  countenance  and  a  quite  lamentably  orphaned 
look  in  his  handsome  eyes. 

"Madame  St.  Leger  is  not  with  them?  What  can 
have  occurred  ?  Where  then  can  she  be  ?"  he  demanded, 
in  tones  of  child-like  disappointment  and  distress. 

"There — there!"  Anastasia  returned,  merrily.  "See, 
no  ill-chance  has  befallen  your  goddess,  my  dear  dis- 
tracted young  god.  Look — look — near  the  cliff  edge, 
to  the  right." 

Then  noting  the  change  which  came  over  Adrian's 
expression  and  bearing  as  his  eyes  followed  her  pointing 
hand,  Miss  Beauchamp's  broadly  amused  smile  faded. 
She  shook  her  head,  sighed,  turned  away,  while  the  witty, 
large-featured  face  grew  gray,  aged,  sibylline  beneath 
the  shadow  of  her  broad-brimmed,  vine-crowned,  slightly 
rampageous  hat. 

"Like  to  like,"  she  murmured.  "However,  others 
before  now  have  gone  through  that  enchanted  and  peril- 
ous gate!  Only  may  the  Almighty  permit  these  two 
not  to  cram  their  romance  into  one  flimsy,  purple-patched, 
paper-bound  yellow-back,  but  print  it  openly  and  hon- 
estly in  three  good,  stout  volumes,  of  which  all  save  the 
first  twenty  or  thirty  pages  deal  with  the  married 
state." 


CHAPTER  V 

IN    WHICH    ADRIAN    MAKES    DISQUIETING    ACQUAINTANCE 
WITH    THE    LONG    ARM    OF    COINCIDENCE 

ADRIAN  sat  well  back  in  the  car.  The  tires  ate  up 
i  the  long  perspectives  of  white  road,  while  the 
brave  music  of  the  engines  made  accompaniment  to  the 
lyrics  of  his  thought.  On  either  side  the  lines  of  poplars 
galloped,  and  behind  them  the  great  gold,  green  and 
rusty-red  squares  of  the  crops,  marked  only  by  the  na- 
ture of  their  respective  growths,  innocent  of  dividing 
fence  or  hedge-row,  swished  back,  half  the  circle,  as  on 
a  turn-table  In  the  valleys  herds  of  oxen  and  stout- 
built,  white-bellied,  tortoise-shell  cows  moved  leisurely 
through  the  rich  meadow-grass.  Prosperous  gray 
homesteads,  flanked  by  mellow  wide-ranging  barns  and 
sheds,  orchards  of  reddening  apples,  and  yards  contain- 
ing a  cheerfully  garrulous  population  of  poultry,  calves, 
and  pigs,  came  into  view  only  to  vanish  backward  along 
with  the  rest.  In  places,  tracts  of  forest,  the  trees 
crowded  and  for  the  most  part  very  tall  and  slight,  as  is 
the  habit  of  northern  French  woodlands,  made  a  dark 
stain  amid  the  gilded  brightness,  casting  long  shadows 
across  the  downward-sloping  pastures  at  their  foot.  A 
note  of  pastel  blue  in  farmers'  and  peasants'  clothing, 
now  and  again  of  lustrous  dappled  gray  in  the  barrel  or 
buttocks  of  some  well-shaped  draught-horse,  of  orange 
or  rose  in  a  child's  frock  or  walled  garden  close,  of  white 
in  airing  linen,  struck  momentarily  into  observation. 
But  dominant  was  the  gilt  of  the  level  sunlight,  the 
gold  of  the  harvest,  and  the  silver  powdering  dust  of  the 

384 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

highway.  All  these  found  sublimated  repetition  in  the 
iridescence  of  a  sunset  modulated  to  rare  half-tones  by 
the  near  neighborhood  of  the  sea.  And  Adrian  sat  well 
back  in  the  car,  restful  yet  keen,  affected  sensuously 
and  passively  rather  than  consciously  and  actively  by 
the  fair,  fruitful  landscape  fleeting  to  right  and  left  of 
him,  revising  his  impressions  of  the  past  day. 

Those  impressions  were,  as  he  told  himself,  in  a  high 
degree  both  stimulating  and  poetic.  He  had  been 
happy,  very  happy;  but  his  happiness  was  of  the  trav- 
eling rather  than  the  stationary  order.  No  touch  of 
satiety  showed  in  it;  rather  much  haunting  solicitation 
of  the  Unattained  and  the  Beyond.  From  Pisgah 
height  he  had  beheld  the  Land  of  Promise,  for  the  first 
time  reasonably  secure  of  entrance  into  that  ardently 
coveted  and  most  delectable  country.  But  the  waters 
of  Jordan  still  rolled  between;  and  whether  these  would 
pile  themselves  politely  apart,  bidding  him  cross  dry- 
shod,  or  whether  a  pretty  smart  bit  of  swimming  would 
be  required  before  he  touched  the  opposite  bank,  he  was 
as  yet  by  no  means  sure.  Enfin — he  could  swim  for  it, 
if  all  came  to  all,  and  would  swim  for  it  gaily  and 
strongly  enough! 

As  that  afternoon  he  first  caught  sight  of  Gabrielle 
St.  Leger  standing,  tall  and  svelte  in  her  light  summer 
dress,  upon  a  grass-grown  mound  on  the  turn  of  the  slope, 
her  strong  yet  pliant  figure  detaching  itself  in  high  relief 
against  the  immense  expanse  of  Ste.  Marie's  blue  lagoons 
and  gleaming  sands,  Adrian  apprehended  that  she  too 
suffered  those  solicitations  of  the  Unattained  and  the 
Beyond.  Her  attitude,  indeed,  was  eloquent  of  ques- 
tioning expectation.  It  recalled  to  him  the  superb  and 
ill-fated  drawing  of  her,  uplifted  amid  the  cruel  and 
witty  obscenities  of  poor  Rene"  Dax's  studio — the  exalted 
Madonna  of  the  Future,  her  child  upon  her  arm,  going 
forth  from  things  habitual  and  familiar  in  obedience  to 
the  call  of  Modernity,  of  the  new  and  tremendous  age. 

385 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Resemblance  was  there;  yet  as  he  looked  a  difference 
in  her  to-day's  attitude  soon  disclosed  itself  to  this 
analytic  though  ardent  lover.  For,  assuredly,  the  sen- 
timent of  this  second  and  living  picture  of  her  was  less 
abstract,  more  warm  and  directly  human  ?  Not  devo- 
tion to  a  Cause,  to  an  impersonal  ideal  or  idea,  inspired 
that  outlooking  of  questioning  expectation  across  the 
shimmering  levels  to  the  freedom  of  the  open  sea,  but 
some  stirring  of  the  heart,  some  demand  of  her  sweet 
flesh  for  those  natural  joys  which  were  its  rightful  por- 
tion. This  difference — and  then  another,  which,  even 
here  by  himself  in  the  rapidly  running  car,  Adrian  ap- 
proached sensitively  and  with  inward  deprecation.  In 
to-day's  picture  she  had  been  alone.  She  had  not  car- 
ried her  child  on  her  arm;  so  that  only  the  woman, 
beautiful  and  youthful,  not  the  already  made  mother, 
was  present. 

And  the  above  fact,  it  must  be  owned,  contributed 
in  no  small  degree  to  the  young  man's  content.  A 
thousand  times,  notwithstanding  his  love  of  analysis,  he 
had  refused  and  shied  away  from  analysis  of  precisely 
this — namely,  the  feeling  he  entertained  toward  little 
Bette.  She  was  a  delicious  being,  granted;  but  she  was 
also  poor  Horace  St.  Leger's  child,  and  from  much  which 
this  implied  Adrian  did  quite  incontestably  shrink. 
La  belle  Gabrielle  might  still  be,  as  he  sincerely  be- 
lieved still  was,  essentially  la  Belle  au  Bois  Dormant, 
just  as  he  himself  was  the  princely  adventurer  selected 
by  Providence  for  the  very  agreeable  task  of  waking 
her  up.  Yet,  during  that  protracted  sleep  of  hers,  things 
had  happened,  primitive  and  practical  things,  to  the 
actuality  of  which  delicious  Mademoiselle  Bette's  exis- 
tence bore  indubitable  witness.  Hence  to  carry  away 
with  him  that  other  picture  of  Gabrielle  as  seen  to-day, 
interrogating  the  fair  sunlit  spaces  unaccompanied,  gave 
him  quite  peculiar  satisfaction.  In  the  glow  of  which 
his  thoughts  now  turned  affectionately  to  the  memory 

386 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

of  poor  Horace  St.  Leger.  For  wasn't  la  belle  Gabrielle, 
after  all,  his,  and  not  Adrian's,  discovery  ?  And  wasn't  he, 
Adrian,  consequently  under  a  gigantic  debt  of  gratitude 
to  Horace  for  so  speedily  taking  his  departure  and  leav- 
ing the  coast  clear  ?  He  might  have  lived  on — agonizing 
reflection! — ten,  twenty,  even — since  centenarians  are  at 
present  so  conspicuously  the  fashion — a  good  thirty  years 
longer;  lived  on,  indeed,  until  it  ceased  to  matter  much 
whether  he  took  his  departure  or  not.  Thinking  over  all 
which,  Adrian  forgave  the  poor  man  his  abbreviated 
enjoyment  of  paternity,  and  in  so  doing  made  his  final 
peace  with  the  existence  of  little  Bette. 

Not  to  have  done  so  would,  in  his  opinion,  have  be- 
trayed a  culpably  ungenerous  and  churlish  spirit.  The 
more  as  when — her  attention  attracted  by  the  pretty 
outcry  of  little  Bette  herself  and  of  Madame  Vernois — 
Gabrielle  turning  her  gaze  landward  became  aware  of 
his  presence,  the  light  in  her  face  and  quick  welcoming 
gesture  of  her  hand  showed  his  advent  as  far  from  dis- 
pleasing to  her.  Both  expression  and  action  struck  him 
so  spontaneous  and  unstudied  that,  without  undue 
vanity,  he  might  well  believe  himself  to  count  for 
something  in  those  allurements  of  the  Beyond  and  the 
Unattained.  Delightfully  certain  it  was,  in  any  case, 
that  she  descended  with  haste  from  her  grassy  monti- 
cule, and — he  could  most  joyfully  have  sworn — put  some 
restraint  upon  herself  so  as  to  advance  and  offer  her 
greetings  with  due  soberness  and  dignity. 

All  through  his  visit  her  manner  had  remained  gentle, 
serious,  touched  even  with  a  hint  of  embarrassment. 
From  these  signs  he  drew  most  hopeful  auguries.  After 
tea,  under  the  quite  perceptibly  out-of-joint  noses  of  the 
two  excellent  young  Americans,  she  had  drawn  him 
aside  and  plied  him  with  questions  respecting  his  nurs- 
ing of  Rene  Dax.  In  response  he  gave  her  a  detailed 
account  of  the  last  two  months.  With  the  artist's 
happy   faculty   for  playing  two  mutually   destructive 

387 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

parts  at  one  and  the  same  time  in  all  sincerity,  he 
mourned  Renews  mental  affliction  and  felt  the  pity  of  it 
while  looking  into  Gabrielle's  eyes,  watching  her  every 
change  of  expression  and  reveling  in  the  emotion  his 
eloquent  recital  evoked.  Her  quickness  of  sympathy 
and  comprehension  were  enchanting.  Never  had  he 
found  her  so  responsive.  Never  had  he  felt  so  closely 
united  to  her  in  sentiment. — And  that  the  egregious 
Tadpole,  of  all  living  creatures,  should  prove  so  excel- 
lent a  stalking-horse! 

Putting  aside  the  high  delight  of  having  Madame  St. 
Leger  as  a  listener,  he  found  sensible  relief  in  speaking 
freely  of  the  subject.  For  the  responsibility  of  his  posi- 
tion had  been  severe  and  wearing.  Especially  had  it 
been  so  during  those,  at  first,  frequently  recurrent  periods 
of  acute  mania,  when  his  affection  and  philosophy  alike 
were  strained  to  breaking-point,  making  him  doubt 
whether  the  protracted  struggle  to  keep  wayward  soul 
and  distempered  body  together  was  either  merciful  or 
obligatory.  If  this  unhappy  lunatic  of  genius  was  so 
passionately  desirous  of  letting  loose  that  same  way- 
ward soul  of  his  through  a  gaping  wound  in  his  throat, 
why  the  deuce  should  he,  Adrian,  in  company  with  three 
or  four  other  strong  and  healthy  men,  be  at  such  tre- 
mendous pains  to  prevent  it?  Mightn't  the  poor  Tad- 
pole know  very  much  best  what  was  best  for  him? 
And  wouldn't  it,  therefore,  be  more  humane  and  in- 
telligent to  leave  nicely  sharpened  razors  within  easy 
reach,  ignoring  the  probable  consequences  of  such  in- 
tentional negligence?  Are  there  not  circumstances 
which  render  connivance  at  suicide  more  than  per- 
missible? Time  and  again  he  had  argued  the  vexed 
question  with  himself  as  to  the  binding  necessity,  even 
the  practical  morality,  of  preserving  human  life  when, 
through  disease,  life  has  so  cruelly  lost  its  distinctively 
human  characteristics  and  values. 

"And,"Gabrielle  St. Leger  remarked,  with  a  smile  edged 
388 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

by  engagingly  gentle  mockery,  "then  invariably  ended, 
against  your  better  judgment,  by  still  carefully  remov- 
ing the  razors!" 

That  same  smile  dwelt  in  the  young  man's  memory  as 
singularly  rich  with  promise,  justifying  the  belief  that 
a  lifetime  spent  in  la  belle  Gabrielle's  society  would  fail 
to  exhaust  her  power  of — to  put  it  vulgarly — jumping 
the  unexpected  upon  you,  and  bracing  your  interest  by 
the  firing  off  of  all  manner  of  fine  little  surprises.  Monot- 
ony, he  thanked  Heaven,  would  very  certainly  not  be 
among  the  dangers  to  be  feared  in  marriage  with  Madame 
St.  Leger! 

But  while  his  imagination  played  about  these  agree- 
able matters  the  music  of  the  engines  changed  its  tune, 
the  brakes  gripped  under  Martin  the  chauffeur's  boot-sole, 
and  the  car  slowed  down  to  a  crawl  in  passing  a  flock  of 
sheep.  Two  large  dogs,  bobtailed  and  shaggy,  their  red 
mouths  widely  open  as  they  raced  barking  to  and  fro, 
rounded  up  the  scared  and  scattering  flock  into  a 
compact,  bleating,  palpitating  mass  of  bister  color 
picked  out  with  rusty  black  upon  the  dust-whitened 
strip  of  turf  by  the  roadside.  The  shepherd,  tall  and 
lean,  a  long  staff  in  his  hand,  his  felt  hat,  hawk-nosed 
face,  unkempt  beard,  ragged  cloak  and  string-girt 
leggings,  presenting  a  study  in  rich  browns  and  umbers 
under  the  last  glinting  gold  of  the  sunset,  gesticulated 
and  shouted,  directing  the  evolutions  of  the  racing  dogs 
in  a  harsh  and  guttural  patois.  The  scene,  a  somewhat 
violent  pastoral,  stamped  itself  as  a  picturesque  inset 
upon  the  wide-margined  page  of  Adrian's  reflections. 

The  sheep  once  safely  cleared  and  the  pace  again 
quickening,  his  thought  centered  complacently  upon  the 
moment  of  his  farewells.  For  surely  these  showed 
handsomely  on  the  credit  side  of  his  day's  pleasure? 

The  friendly  little  company  —  not  exclusive  of  the 
forgiving  though  cheapened  Americans — had  gathered 
at  the  hotel  entrance  to  witness  his  start.     Anastasia's 

389 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

voice  and  manner  were  rich  with  meaning  and  affec- 
tionate admonition  as  she  invited  him  speedily  to  re- 
turn. In  the  expression  of  Madame  Vernois's  refined 
face  he  seemed  to  read  something  approaching  appeal 
as  she  gracefully  seconded  that  invitation.  While  Ga- 
brielle  herself — she  standing  a  little  apart  from  the  rest, 
nearer  to  the  waiting  automobile — answered,  not  lightly, 
but  with  a  sweet  and  grave  dignity,  on  his  asking  her: 

"And  you,  chere  Madame  et  amie,  have  I  your  invita- 
tion also?  May  I  soon  come  back?  Without  your 
sanction  it  would,  perhaps,  be  preferable,  be  wiser,  more 
desirable  for  me  to  stay  away." 

"  I,  too,  hope  you  may  find  it  possible  soon  to  return 
here.  If  your  doing  so  depends  in  any  degree  upon  my 
sanction  I  give  that  sanction  readily." 

And  thus  speaking  she  had  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes. 
Whereupon,  though  furiously  unwilling  to  quit  the  dear 
sight  and  sound  of  her,  this  very  modern  young  god 
mounted  up  into  his  very  modern  car  in  quite  celestial 
serenity  of  spirit. 

But  as  the  dusk  deepened  and  the  lights  of  Rouen 
multiplied  in  the  distance,  happy  retrospect  gave  place 
to  happy  on-looking,  since,  at  nine  and  twenty,  no  sound 
and  wholesome  man  seriously  questions  the  existence  of 
earthly  bliss. 

Yes,  a  week,  possibly  even  a  few  days,  would  suffice 
to  assure  him  all  went  well  with  Rend  in  his  new  quarters. 
Then  he  might  reckon  himself  at  liberty  to  return  to  Ste. 
Marie  and  the  dear  people  there.  And,  once  there,  no 
overstrained  delicacy  should  withhold  him  from  putting 
it  to  the  touch  with  Gabrielle  St.  Leger.  Bowing  to 
Anastasia's  advice,  he  would  risk  saying  the  word  too 
much,  so  as  to  avoid  the  greater  danger  of  saying  the 
word  too  little ; — risk  it  the  more  gladly  because  he  grate- 
fully believed  it  mightn't  prove  the  word  too  much, 
but  the  word  acceptable,  even  the  word  actually,  though 
silently  and  proudly,  waited  for.     The  immediate  conse- 

39© 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

quence  of  which  belief  was  that,  the  car  striking  into  the 
town  through  the  Faubourg  Beauvosine  and  traveling 
the  Boulevard  and  the  rue  St.  Hilaire  successively,  it 
appeared  to  Adrian  in  act  of  traversing  an  altogether 
heavenly  city,  whose  now  poetic  ancient  buildings,  now 
stately  new  ones,  were  alike  built  of  silver,  and  whose 
deep-resounding  streets,  in  the  growing  brilliance  of  the 
lamp-light,  were  paved  with  gold.  Such  extravagant 
tricks,  even  in  this  machine-made,  mammon-worshiping 
twentieth  century,  can  love  still  contrive  to  play  upon  the 
happy  lover! 

On  the  way  to  the  hotel,  where  he  had  left  his  light 
traveling  baggage  when  passing  through  from  Caen  in 
the  morning,  Adrian  alighted  at  the  central  post-office, 
in  the  rue  Jeanne  a" Arc,  to  claim  his  two-days'  mail 
forwarded  from  Paris. 

Coming  out,  he  stood  awhile  at  the  edge  of  the  pave- 
ment verifying  the  several  items.  Two  consignments 
of  proofs — this  pleased  him.  A  slim  one  from  the  office, 
containing,  as  he  knew,  his  fortnightly  chronique  of  cur- 
rent home  and  foreign  politics  for  the  forthcoming 
number  of  the  Review.  The  other — and  his  glance 
settled  upon  it  affectionately — was  stouter,  holding  the 
slips  of  a  story  of  some  forty  pages.  Into  that  story 
he  had  put  all  the  imaginative  and  verbal  skill  of 
which  he,  as  yet,  felt  himself  capable.  It  was  a  drama, 
at  once  pathetic  and  brutal,  of  the  Paris  underworld 
which  he  had  this  year  so  intimately  investigated 
during  his  unsuccessful  search  for  Bibby  Smyrthwaite. 
He  felt  keen  to  know  how  it  looked  and  read  in  print; 
for  in  the  back  of  his  mind  lurked  a  hope  that  just  con- 
ceivably it  might  prove  a  little  masterpiece  and  assure 
his  place  among  those  writers  of  contemporary  fiction 
whose  literary  output  really  counts. 

And  here  for  the  moment  it  must  be  owned  the  lover 
was  called  upon  to  make  room  for  the  artist,  while  Adrian 
promised  himself  the  best  of  good  hours,  after  dinner  to- 

39i 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

night,  in  revising  punctuation,  correcting  misprints,  and 
leisurely  making  those  carefully  considered  alterations 
in  wording  so  absorbing  to  one  emulous  of  combining 
grace  and  high  finish  with  pungency  and  vivacity  of 
style.  Tenderly  he  laid  the  packet  down  on  the  seat  of 
the  waiting  car,  and  raised  his  eyes  as  in  invocation  to 
the  star-pierced  blue  of  the  summer  sky  roofing  the  per- 
spective of  silver-gray  houses  and  silver-gilt  street.  For 
mightn't  he  take  it  as  a  fortunate  omen  that  the  proofs 
should  come  to  hand  on  this  so  fortunate  day?  Omen 
that  the  story  would  strike  home  and  its  readers  acclaim 
him  as  a  doer  of  notable  and  living  work  ? 

He  glanced  rapidly  at  the  envelopes  of  his  private 
letters;  and,  while  thus  occupied,  became  aware  that 
Martin,  the  chauffeur,  was  engaged — as  not  infrequently 
— in  an  altercation.  The  man  was  a  clever  driver,  and 
to  him,  Adrian,  a  willing  and  trustworthy  servant. 
But  his  temper  was  inconveniently  inflammable,  and  he 
inclined  to  pick  quarrels  with  half  the  men  and  make 
amorous  overtures  to  more  than  half  the  women  he  met, 
thus  involving  both  himself  and  his  master  in  super- 
fluously dramatic  incidents.  Under  provocation  his 
language  became  variegated  and  astonishingly  ripe. 
Epithets  of  the  latter  description  he  was  now  in  process 
of  discharging  upon  some  individual  who  had  knocked 
up  against  him,  in  passing,  as  he  stood  at  the  edge  of  the 
pavement  bending  down  to  examine  the  tire  of  the  near 
front  wheel  of  the  car. 

"Martin,  stop  that,  if  you  please,"  Adrian  said,  warn- 
ingly,  over  his  shoulder,  and  returned  to  the  survey  of  his 
letters. 

There  was  one  from  Anastasia  Beauchamp.  Bless  the 
dear  woman,  wasn't  she  indeed  a  jewel  of  a  friend !  And 
there  was  one,  black-bordered,  and  addressed,  though 
less  neatly  than  usual,  in  Joanna  Smyrthwaite's  small, 
scholarly  handwriting.  Adrian  was  conscious  of  im- 
patience, of  an  unreasoning  sense  of  injury.     For  why, 

392 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

of  all  days  in  the  year,  should  he  hear  from  Joanna  to- 
day? He  had  thought  of  her  seldom  lately,  owing  to 
preoccupation  with  and  anxiety  regarding  Rend  Dax; 
and  it  struck  him  as  a  rather  wanton  smirching  of  his 
delightful  day's  record  and  subtle  menace  to  the  success 
of  his  precious  little  story  that  the  rather  unpleasant 
matter  of  poor  Joanna  should  thus  obtrude  itself.  {In- 
definable apprehension  of  coming  trouble  flashed  through 
his  mind. 

All  this  was  a  matter  of  seconds;  but  during  those 
seconds,  the  voice  of  the  choleric  chauffeur  had  risen 
from  a  gusty  snarl  into  the  screech  of  a  blazing  sky- 
rocket, bursting  finally  into  a  star-shower  of  unrecord- 
able  invective. 

Adrian,  imposingly  tall  in  his  long  dust-colored  frieze 
motor-coat,  wheeled  round  upon  the  man  angrily. 

"Ah,  par  exemple!  but  this  is  intolerable!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "Have  I  not  already  commanded  you  to  be 
silent  ?  Do  you  propose  to  disgrace  me,  as  well  as  your- 
self, by  fighting  in  the  open  street  ?  Behave  respectably, 
not  like  an  idiot.  Do  you  hear — get  in  behind  your 
steering-wheel  and  keep  quiet  until  I  am  ready  to  start." 

"But,  Monsieur,  the  fellow  has  grossly  insulted  me. 
He  cannoned  into  me  by  design,  the  thrice  filthy  animal, 
the  sodden  ass,  and  would  have  rolled  me  in  the  gutter 
had  I  not  skilfully  braced  myself.  Clearly  his  intention 
was  robbery.  He  is  a  danger  to  society,  a  thief,  a  pick- 
pocket. Only  let  Monsieur  look  for  himself,  and  declare 
whether  a  more  verminous  gaol-bird  has  ever  been  pre- 
sented for  his  inspection  ?" 

And  looking,  Adrian  beheld  the  chauffeur,  fiery-eyed, 
with  bristling  black  mustache,  and,  struggling  in  his 
vicious  grip,  Joanna  Smyrthwaite  herself — Joanna  dis- 
sipated, degraded,  with  prominent,  blear  blue  eyes  and 
weak  hanging  underlip,  masquerading  in  man's  attire, 
as  in  those  infamous,  now  obliterated  drawings  upon 
Rend  Dax's  studio  wall. 

393 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Disgust,  and  a  vague  apprehension  of  something  un- 
natural and  outside  reason,  seized  on  Adrian  Savage. 
The  sight  was  loathsome,  to  a  degree,  both  in  suggestion 
and  in  fact.  Then  he  understood;  and,  understanding, 
suffered  a  moment  of  acute  indecision.  But  a  crowd  was 
collecting.  The  police  might  arrive  upon  the  scene.  Mak- 
ing a  strong  effort  to  surmount  his  disgust,  he  said: 

"Let  him  go,  Martin.  I  know  him.  I  will  explain  to 
you  presently.     Now  I  require  your  help." 

Then  he  added  rapidly,  in  English : 

"  Pardon  my  servant's  rudeness.  In  the  end  you  shall 
not  have  cause  to  regret  it.  You  are  William  Smyrth- 
waite — Bibby — are  you  not?" 

Martin  relinquished  his  hold  sulkily.  His  victim, 
dazed  and  breathless,  stood  at  bay;  a  ring  of  curious, 
contemptuous  faces  behind  him,  and  Adrian,  stern,  yet 
excited,  and  with  difficulty  repressing  evidences  of  his 
repugnance,  in  front. 

"And,  if  I  am  Bibby  Smyrthwaite,  what  the  devil  is 
that  to  you?"  he  answered  petulantly  in  English.  "I 
never  set  eyes  on  you  before.  Why  should  you  interfere 
with  me  ?  Haven't  I  as  much  right  to  the  pavement  as 
that  liveried  brute  of  yours?  I've  got  a  job  as  cab- 
washer.  If  I'm  late  at  the  yard  I  shall  forfeit  my  pay. 
And  I  want  my  pay." 

His  loose-lipped  mouth  twisted  miserably  and  tears 
began  to  dribble  down  his  sunken  cheeks. 

"  Let  me  go,"  he  blubbered.  "  I  haven't  done  you  any 
harm,  and  I  want  my  pay." 

Then  Adrian,  moved  by  compassion,  came  close  to  him 
and  spoke  kindly. 

"See  here,  my  poor  boy,"  he  said.  "I  am  com- 
missioned by  persons  who  have  a  regard  for  you  to  pro- 
vide for  you.  You  need  not  worry  about  your  pay.  I 
will  take  care  of  all  that.  For  months  I  have  tried  to 
find  you  to  tell  you  this.  I  am  Adrian  Savage,  a  cousin 
of  your  late  father,  and  his  executor." 

394 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

The  tears  ceased,  and  the  young  man's  face  was  over- 
spread by  an  expression  of  almost  imbecile  rapture. 
Adrian  turned  sick.  Exactly  thus  had  Joanna  looked, 
more  than  once. 

"Is  my  father  dead,  then?"  Bibby  asked. 

"Yes,  he  is  dead,"  Adrian  replied,  in  bewilderment. 

Bibby  reeled  forward  and  squatted  on  the  broad  foot- 
board of  the  car,  his  head  thrown  back,  holding  his  sides, 
his  thin,  loose-jointed  limbs  and  body  writhing  with  and 
shaken  by  hysterical  laughter. 

"Dead!"  he  quavered  out — "dead!  By  God!  they've 
got  him  at  last,  then — got  him,  the  stinking,  slave- 
driving  old  hypocrite!  And,  please  God,  they're  cook- 
ing him  now — now — at  this  very  identical  minute — 
cooking  him  to  a  turn,  down  in  hell." 
26 


CHAPTER  VI 

CONCERNING   A   CURSE,    AND   THE    MANNER   OF   ITS    GOING 
HOME    TO    ROOST 

THE  room,  furnished  in  dark  walnut,  was  upholstered 
in  red  Utrecht  velvet,  the  walls  hung  with  a  striped 
fawn-and-red  paper.  A  mirror,  in  a  florid  gilt  frame,  was 
fixed  above  the  low  mantel-shelf.  The  atmosphere  held 
odors  reminiscent  of  cigarettes,  patchouli,  and  food  in 
process  of  cooking.  The  dinner-table  had,  by  Adrian's 
orders,  been  placed  near  the  central  window,  the  two 
casements  of  which  stood  open  to  the  ground.  After  so 
many  hours  spent  in  the  open  air,  dining  in  present  com- 
pany he  felt  the  necessity  of  such  freshness  as  he  could 
by  any  means  get.  In  the  center  of  the  long  flagged 
courtyard  the  big  palmate  leaves  of  a  row  of  pollarded 
chestnuts  caught  the  light  coming  from  the  offices  on  the 
left.  White-coated,  white-capped  chefs  and  scullions 
passed  to  and  fro.  An  old  liver-colored  bitch,  basset  as 
to  her  legs  and  pointer  as  to  her  body,  waddled  after 
them,  her  nose  in  the  air,  sniffing,  permanently  hopeful 
of  scraps.  On  the  flags,  just  outside  the  salon  window, 
three  tabby  kittens  played — stalking  one  another  round 
pots  of  fuchsia  and  musk,  bouncing  out,  leaping  in  the 
air,  spitting,  galloping  sideways,  highly  diabolic  with 
teapot-handle  tails.  Farther  along  the  courtyard,  hid- 
den by  the  lower  branches  of  the  intervening  trees,  a 
stable-helper  sang  and  whistled  as  he  washed  down  the 
hotel  omnibus.  The  servants  talked,  laughed,  scolded 
over  their  work.  Almost  incessantly  from  the  rue 
Jeanne  d'Arc  came  the  long-drawn  rattle  and  swish  of 
the  electric  trams.     And  opposite  to  Adrian  at  table, 

396 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

clad  in  a  complete  outfit  of  his,  Adrian's  clothes— a 
white  flannel  suit  with  a  faint  four-thread  black  stripe 
on  it,  a  soft,  pale  blue  shirt,  an  immaculate  collar  and 
narrow  black  tie — sat  William  Smyrthwaite,  outwardly, 
at  all  events,  surprisingly  transformed. 

Adrian  had  hesitated  to  propose  him  as  an  inmate; 
but  an  up-to-date  motor-car,  a  ruffling  chauffeur,  a  well- 
built  suit-case  and  kit-bag  bearing  an  English  name,  a 
very  good  Paris  address,  are  calculated  to  promote  not 
only  faith,  but  charity.  The  hotel  proprietor,  a  short, 
fat,  bland  little  man  with  a  dancing  step  and  a  shrewd, 
rapacious  Norman  eye,  was  sympathy  itself. 

"That  Monsieur  should  remove  his  effects  and  seek 
another,  an  inferior,  hotel  would  desolate  him,  was  not 
to  be  thought  of!  He  would  arrange  the  affair  on  the 
instant.  Such  lamentable  lapses  will  occur  at  times — 
are  there  not,  alas,  members  of  the  most  respectable, 
the  most  distinguished,  families  who  turn  badly?  Let 
Monsieur,  then,  rest  assured  he  was  infinitely  touched 
by  the  confidence  Monsieur  reposed  in  him.  And,  see" 
— tapping  his  forehead  with  a  fat  forefinger — "the  little 
suite  at  the  back  on  the  ground  floor,  giving  upon  the 
courtyard,  became  precisely  this  morning  vacant.  True, 
these  were  not  the  rooms  he  should  have  selected  for 
Monsieur's  occupation;  but,  under  the  circumstances, 
it  was  conceivable  they  would  serve.  They  were  com- 
fortable though  modest.  They  were  retired — two  bed- 
chambers connected  by  a  salon.  There  Monsieur  and 
his  guest  could  dine  in  private,  secure  from  the  in- 
trusive observation  of  strangers.  But,  indeed,  no — 
Monsieur  was  too  amiable !  He  himself  was  undeserving 
of  thanks,  since  did  it  not  become  evident  that  Monsieur 
was  engaged  in  a  work  of  the  highest  benevolence — 
the  attempted  reclamation  of  an  unhappy  fellow-creat- 
ure?— With  which  work  to  be  associated,  even  in  the 
humblest  capacity,  could  not  but  be  esteemed  by  any 
person  of  feeling  as  a  privilege." 

397 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Then  with  a  rapid  change  of  manner,  becoming  auto- 
cratic, Napoleonic: 

"Gustave,"  he  cried,  over  his  shoulder,  "  portez  les 
bagages  de  ces  messieurs  aux  numeros  sept  et  huit." — And 
waving  Adrian  to  follow,  he  bounced  lightly  away  down 
the  corridor;  his  eyebrows  drawn  together  as  he  in- 
wardly debated  how  many  francs  extra  he  dared  charge 
for  the  Utrecht-velvet  upholstered  suite  without  seeming 
too  flagrantly  extortionate. 

After  that  first  outbreak  of  unseemly  rejoicing  at  the 
announcement  of  his  father's  death,  young  Smyrthwaite 
subsided  into  a  state  of  acquiescent  apathy.  He  did  as 
he  was  bid,  but  with  what  mental  reservations,  what 
underlying  thoughts  or  emotions,  Adrian  failed  to 
discover.  Somewhere,  in  this  weak,  slipshod  creature, 
he  suspected  a  bed-rock  of  obstinacy.  He  also  suspected 
predatory  instincts.  Or,  was  it  only  that  the  instinct  of 
self-preservation  had  taken — as  under  the  stress  of 
poverty  it  almost  must  take — a  predatory  form? 

At  the  beginning  of  dinner  Smyrthwaite  spoke  little, 
but  sat,  his  elbows  upon  the  table,  his  head  bent  low  over 
his  plate,  putting  away  food  with  the  sullen  haste  of  an 
animal  suspicious  of  its  fellow-animal's  intentions  and 
appetite.  And  when  Adrian,  to  whom  this  exhibition 
of  gluttony  proved  anything  but  agreeable,  hinted  civilly 
there  was  no  cause  for  hurry,  he  looked  across  the  nicely 
ordered  table  with  a  half-sneering  yet  oddly  boyish  smile. 

"Oh!  it's  all  very  well  for  you,"  he  said.  "You're 
safe  enough  to  have  your  solid  three  meals  to-morrow, 
and  all  the  other  blooming  to-morrows  as  long  as  you 
live.  But,  I  tell  you,  I  mean  to  make  jolly  sure  of 
this  meal  while  I  can  get  it.  I've  learned  not  to  put 
much  trust  in  to-morrows.  I  want  to  be  on  the  safe 
side,  so  that  if  the  wind  changes,  as  far  as  this  meal  goes, 
anyhow,  I  shall  have  nothing  to  repent  of." 

"But,  my  good  fellow,  the  wind  will  not  change. 
That  is  exactly  what  I  have  been  trying  to  assure  you," 

398 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Adrian  interposed,  pity  and  repulsion  playing  see-saw 
within  him  to  a  bewildering  extent.  "For  the  future 
you  can  be  just  as  secure  of  three  meals  a  day  as  I  my- 
self am  if  you  choose." 

"Bully!"  Smyrthwaite  said.  "I  wonder!  The  old 
man  cut  up  well?"  he  added,  his  face  again  bent  down 
over  the  table. 

"Your  father  left  a  large  fortune,"  Adrian  replied, 
repulsion  now  very  much  on  the  top. 

"To  me?     Not  likely!" 

"To  your  sisters.  And  Joanna" — Adrian  hesitated, 
conscious  of  a  singular  distaste  to  using  the  Christian 
name — "at  once  devoted  a  considerable  sum  of  money 
to  be  employed,  in  the  event  of  your  return,  for  your 
maintenance." 

With  his  coarse,  thick  -  jointed  fingers  Smyrthwaite 
rubbed  a  bit  of  bread  round  his  plate,  sopping  up  the  re- 
mains of  the  gravy. 

"That's  no  more  than  right,"  he  said,  "if  you  come 
to  think  of  it.     Why  should  the  girls  have  all  the  stuff?" 

His  hand  went  out  furtively  across  the  table  to  a  dish 
of  braised  beef  and  richly  cooked  vegetables  which  he 
proceeded  to  transfer  to  his  own  plate. 

"  All  the  same,  it's  nice  of  Nannie.  We  were  rather 
chummy  in  the  old  days — the  blasted  old  days  which 
I've  nearly  forgot.  But  I  didn't  suppose  she  cared 
still.  Poor  old  Nannie!  What  a  beastly  hash  my  father 
made  of  our  lives !  Nannie  ought  to  have  married  Merri- 
man.  Then  I  should  have  had  a  home.  Andrew's  a 
bit  peachy,  but  he's  a  rare  good  sort." 

He  slushed  in  the  food  silently  for  a  while;  and  Adrian, 
anxious  to  avoid  observation  of  the  details  of  that  proc- 
ess, watched  the  kittens  sporting  round  the  flower-pots 
on  the  flags  just  outside. 

He  had  searched  for  Bibby,  spending  time,  money, 
even  risking  personal  safety,  in  that  search.  He  had 
found  Bibby.     He  had  brought  him  here  to  civilized 

399 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

quarters.  He  had  clothed  him  from  head  to  foot. — 
Adrian  felt  a  pang,  for  they  were  such  nice  clothes !  He 
was  rather  fond  of  that  particular  flannel  suit.  Really  it 
cost  him  not  a  little  to  part  with  it ;  and,  he  could  almost 
fancy,  hanging  now  upon  Bibby's  angular,  narrow- 
chested  frame,  that  it  bore  the  plaintive  air  of  a  thing 
unkindly  treated,  consciously  humiliated  and  disgraced. 
He  apologized  to  it  half  sentimentally,  half  humorously, 
in  spirit. — And  then  because  the  small  things  of  life  whip 
one's  sense  of  the  great  ones  into  higher  activity,  the 
trivial  matter  of  the  ill-used  flannel  suit  brought  home  to 
Adrian  with  disquieting  clearness  the  difficulties  of  this 
whole  third  affaire  Smyrthwaite  in  which  he  had,  as  it 
now  occurred  to  him,  rather  recklessly  embarked. 

As  if  the  two  first  affaires,  those  of  father  and  daughter, 
hadn't  been  enough,  he  must  needs  go  and  add  that  of  the 
degenerate  son  and  brother!  And  who,  after  all,  would 
thank  him?  Wasn't  he  very  much  a  fool,  then,  for  his 
pains?  Psychologically  and  in  the  abstract,  as  an  ex- 
ample of  lapse  and  degradation,  Smyrthwaite  presented 
an  interesting  and  instructive  study.  But  in  the  con- 
crete, as  a  guest,  a  companion,  as  a  young  man,  a  rela- 
tion, moreover,  to  be  reclaimed  from  evil  courses  and 
socially  reinstated,  the  situation  took  on  quite  other 
color.  Looking  across  the  table  now  as,  his  plate  again 
empty,  Bibby  sank  back  in  his  chair,  slouched  together, 
his  hands  in  his  trousers  pockets,  his  blue  eyes  turned 
upon  the  door,  anxiously  awaiting  the  advent  of  the 
garcon  with  the  next  course,  Adrian  was  tempted  to 
deplore  his  own  philanthropic  impulse.  All  hope  of 
pulling  the  boy  up  to  any  permanently  decent  level  of 
living  seemed  so  unspeakably  remote. 

And,  as  though  some  silent  transmission  of  thought 
had  taken  place  between  them,  Bibby's  next  speech  went 
to  confirm  Adrian's  fears. 

"You  say  if  I  choose,"  he  began;  "but  the  question 
is,  can  I  choose  ?     You  see  I'm  so  beastly  out  of  the  habit 

400 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

of  all  that.— Now  I'm  getting  full  I  seem  to  understand 
things,  so  I'd  best  talk  at  once." 

"I  ask  nothing  better  than  that  you  should  talk  " 
Adrian  put  in,  good-temperedly.  For  Heaven's  sake,  let 
him  at  least  gain  whatever  scientific  knowledge  of  and 
from  Bibby  he  could! 

"Presently  I  shall  turn  sleepy,"  the  other  continued, 
with  a  curiously  unblushing  directness  of  statement.' 
"I  always  do  when  I'm  first  filled  up  after  going  short. 
You  see,  I've  never  set  eyes  on  you  before,  and  you  come 
along  and  tell  me  some  blooming  fairy  story  about  poor 
old  Nannie  and  her  money.  It  may  be  true  or  it  may  be 
false,  but  anyhow  I  don't  seem  to  tumble  to  it.  I  fancy 
these  clothes  and  I  fancy  this  feed,  but  I  don't  feel  to 
go  much  beyond  that. — Chicken? — Yes,  rather.  Leave 
me  the  breast.  Golly!  I  do  like  white  meat!  Two  or 
three  years  ago  it  would  have  set  me  on  fire.  I  should 
have  felt  like  bucking  up  and  making  play  with  it — 
repentant  prodigal,  don't  you  know,  and  all  that  kind  of 
rot.  But  now  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  bother  much. 
If  it  was  winter  I  suppose  I  should  be  more  ready  to 
fix  on  to  it,  because  I'm  afraid  of  the  cold.  When 
you're  empty  half  the  time  cold  makes  you  so  beastly 
sick ;  and  then  I  get  chilblains  and  my  skin  chaps.  But 
in  the  summer  I'd  just  as  soon  lie  out. — Say,  can  I  have 
the  rest  of  the  fowl  ?" 

"  By  all  means,"  Adrian  replied,  handing  him  the  dish. 
"You  see,  it's  like  this,"  he  went  on,  picking  up  the 
bones  and  ripping  off  the  meat  with  his  teeth,  "I've 
knocked  about  so  long  it's  grown  second  nature.  I  have 
to  move  on.  I  can't  stick  to  one  job  or  stop  in  one  place. 
I  suppose  that's  left  over  from  the  old  days,  when 
my  father  was  always  down  on  me  with  some  infernal 
row  or  other.  He  hated  me  like  poison.  It's  a  trick 
Englishmen  have  with  their  sons.  They've  not  got  the 
knack  of  paternity  like  you  French.  I  got  into  the  habit 
of  feeling  I'd  best  run  because  he  was  sure  to  be  after  me; 

401 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

and  that's  a  sort  of  feeling  you  can't  be  quit  of.  It 
keeps  you  always  looking  over  your  shoulder  to  see 
what's  coming  next.  People  haven't  been  half  nasty  to 
me  on  the  whole,  and  I  mightn't  have  done  so  badly  if 
I  could  have  stuck.  A  little  mincing  devil  of  an  artist, 
with  a  head  like  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's — draws  for  the 
comic  papers — you  may  know  him — Rene"  Dax — " 

"Yes,  I  know  him,"  Adrian  said. 

"  He  picked  me  up  this  winter  when  I  was  just  pitch- 
ing myself  into  the  river.  It  was  cold,  you  see,  and  I'd 
been  drinking.  It's  silly  to  drink  when  you're  empty.  It 
gives  you  the  hump.  He  took  me  home  with  him,  and 
drew  funny  pictures  of  me.  They  were  pretty  low  down 
some  of  them,  but  they  made  me  laugh.  He  did  me  very 
well  as  to  food  and  all  that,  but  two  or  three  days  of  it 
was  enough.  I  couldn't  stand  the  confinement.  I 
pinched  what  I  could  and  left." 

Adrian  raised  his  eyebrows  and  passed  his  hand  down 
over  his  black  beard  meditatively.  A  sweet  youth,  a 
really  sweet  and  promising  youth  this ! — Rene-  had  never 
mentioned  the  thieving  incident  to  him,  and  it  ex- 
plained much.  It  also  showed  Rent's  conception  of  the 
duty  entailed  by  hospitality  in  an  admirable  light. 
Even  active  exercise  of  the  predatory  instinct  must  be 
passed  over  in  silence  in  the  case  of  a  guest. 

"What  he  paid  me,  with  what  I  took,  kept  me  going 
quite  a  good  while,"  Smyrthwaite  said,  stretching  and 
yawning  audibly.  "  But  I'm  turning  thundering  sleepy. 
I  told  you  I  should.  I'll  be  shot  if  I  can  sit  up  on  end 
jawing  any  more  like  this,"  he  added  querulously.  "  You 
might  let  a  fellow  have  ten  minutes'  nap." 

Ten  minutes,  twenty  minutes,  all  the  minutes  of  the 
unnumbered  ages  spent  by  Bibby  in  slumber  would, 
Adrian  just  then  felt,  supply  a  more  than  grateful 
respite!  He  lit  a  cigarette  and  stepped  out  of  the  open 
window  on  to  the  flags,  thereby  startling  the  tabby 
kittens,  who,  with  arched  backs  and  frenzied  spittings, 

402 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

vanished  behind  the  flower-pots.  An  arc  lamp  was  fixed 
to  the  wall  just  over  the  kitchen  entrance.  One  of  the 
white-clad  chefs  brought  out  a  chair,  and  sat  there 
reading  a  flimsy,  little  two-page  evening  paper.  The 
heavy  foliage  of  the  chestnuts  hung  motionless.  In  the 
distance  a  bugle  sounded  to  quarters.  And  Adrian 
thought  of  Gabrielle  St.  Leger,  standing  on  the  grass- 
grown  monticle  looking  across  the  gleaming  sands  of 
Ste.  Marie  into  the  beckoning  future.  When  next  they 
met  he  would  speak,  she  would  answer— and  Adrian's 
eyes  grew  at  once  very  gay  and  very  gentle.  He  pushed 
up  the  ends  of  his  mustache  and  smoothed  the  tip  of 
his  pointed  beard.  Then  he  remembered  on  a  sudden 
that  in  the  houroosh  over  the  finding  of  Bibby  he  had 
forgotten  all  about  his  letters. 

So  he  took  them  out  of  his  pocket  and  looked  at  them. 
It  wasn't  necessary  to  read  dear  Anastasia's  letter  now, 
since  he  knew  pretty  well  what  it  must  contain,  having 
seen  her  so  lately.  But  here  was  Joanna's  black-edged 
envelope.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. — Oh!  this  inter- 
minable famille  Smyrthwaite!  Why,  the  dickens,  had 
his  great -aunt  committed  the  maddening  error  of  marry- 
ing into  it?  With  an  expressive  grimace,  followed  by 
an  expression  of  saintly  resignation,  Adrian  tore  the 
envelope  open.  The  letter  was  a  long  one,  worse  luck! 
He  read  a  few  lines,  and  moved  forward  to  where  the 
arc  lamp  gave  a  fuller  light.  "Par  eocempleT  he  said, 
once  or  twice;  also,  very  softly,  "Sapristi!"  drawing 
in  his  breath.  Then  all  lurking  sense  of  comedy  deserted 
him.  He  straightened  himself  up,  his  face  bleaching 
beneath  its  brown  coating  of  sunburn  and  his  eyes  grow- 
ing hot.  The  old  dog  waddled  across  from  the  offices 
and  planted  herself  in  front  of  him,  wagging  a  disgrace- 
fully illegitimate  tail,  looking  up  in  his  face,  sniffing 
and  feebly  grinning.  He  paid  no  heed  to  her  feminine 
cajoleries;  paid  no  heed  to  the  fact  that  his  cigarette 
had  gone  out,  or  to  the  antics  of  the  again  emergent 

403 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

kittens,  or  to  the  intermittent  sounds  from  the  court- 
yard and  city,  or  to  the  all -pervasive  stable  and  kitchen 
smells. 

"Dear  Cousin  Adrian,"  Joanna's  letter  ran,  "I  find 
it  difficult  and  even  painful  to  write  to  you,  yet  I  can 
no  longer  refrain  from  writing.  In  refraining  I  might 
be  guilty  of  an  injustice  toward  you.  This  nerves  me 
to  write.  I  have  suffered  very  greatly  in  the  past  week. 
I  know  suffering  may  purify,  but  I  am  not  purified  by 
this  suffering.  On  the  contrary,  the  tendencies  of  my 
nature  which  I  least  approve  are  brought  into  promi- 
nence by  it.  I  owe  it  to  whatever  is  best  in  me;  I  owe 
it  to  you — yes,  above  all  to  you — to  take  steps  to  check 
this  dreadful  florescence  of  evil  in  myself. 

"But  before  explaining  the  principal  cause  of  my 
suffering,  I  must  tell  you  this.  You  may  have  heard 
from  Margaret.  In  that  case  forgive  my  repeating 
what  you  already  know.  She  has  engaged  herself  to 
Mr.  Challoner.  The  news  came  to  me  as  a  great  shock. 
From  every  point  of  view  such  a  marriage  is  displeasing 
to  me.  I  have  regretted  Mr.  Challoner 's  influence  over 
Margaret.  Already  I  cannot  but  see  she  is  deteriorat- 
ing, and  adopting  a  view  of  life  dreadfully  wanting  in 
elevation  of  feeling  and  thought.  I  know  you  will 
sympathize  with  me  in  this,  and  that  you  will  also  de- 
plore Margaret's  choice.  Indeed,  the  thought  of  the 
effect  that  this  news  must  have  upon  your  mind  has 
caused  me  much  sorrow.  You  may  so  reasonably  ob- 
ject to  Mr.  Challoner  entering  our  family.  I  have  never 
considered  that  he  appreciated  your  great  superiority 
to  himself  both  in  position  and  in  attainments,  or  treated 
you  with  the  deference  due  to  you.  Mr.  Challoner  is 
not  a  gentleman,  and  I  am  humiliated  by  the  prospect 
of  his  becoming  nearly  connected  with  you  by  marriage. 
You  are  too  just  to  visit  this  upon  me;  but  it. must  color 
your  thought  of  me  and  of  all  our  future  relation. 

"I  speak  of  our  future  relation;  and  there  the  agony 
404 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

of  suspense  in  which  I  have  lately  lived  overcomes  me. 
I  can  hardly  write.  Believe  me,  Adrian,  I  do  not 
doubt  you ;  I  know  you  are  incapable  of  an  inconsiderate, 
still  more  of  a  cruel,  action.  My  trust  in  you  is  as  deep 
as  my  affection.  It  is  myself  whom  I  distrust.  Know- 
ing my  absence  of  talent  and  beauty,  knowing  my  own 
faults  of  character  from  the  first,  the  wonder  of  your 
love  for  me  has  been  almost  overpowering,  almost 
incredible." 

Adrian  folded  the  thin  sheets  together  and  walked 
back  and  forth  over  the  flags,  looking  up  at  the  fair 
night  sky  above  the  big-leaved  chestnuts. 

"My  God!  Poor  thing!  poor  Joanna!  What  can  one 
do?     Poor  thing!"  he  said. 

Then  he  stood  still  again  in  the  lamplight  and  re- 
opened the  letter. 

"And  hence,  when  gossiping  reports  reach  me,  how- 
ever contrary  to  my  knowledge  of  you  and  however  un- 
worthy of  credence  they  may  be,  aware  as  I  am  of  my 
many  shortcomings,  they  torture  me.  I  cannot  control 
my  mind.  It  places  dreadful  ideas  before  me.  I  realize 
my  utter  dependence  upon  you  for  all  that  makes  life 
desirable — I  could  almost  say  for  all  that  makes  its  con- 
tinuance possible.  Before  you  came  to  us,  at  the  time 
of  papa's  death  this  winter,  I  was  unhappy,  but  passive- 
ly unhappy,  as  one  born  blind  might  be  yearning  for 
a  sense  denied  and  unknown  to  him.  Now,  when  fears 
regarding  our  relation  to  each  other  assail  me  I  am  like 
one  who,  having  enjoyed  the  rapture  and  glory  of  sight, 
is  struck  blind,  or  who  learns  that  sightlessness,  abso- 
lute and  incurable,  awaits  him.  A  horror  of  great  dark- 
ness is  v  pon  me.  Only  you  can  relieve  me  of  that  horror ; 
therefore  I  write  to  you. 

"Col.  Rentoul  Haig  tells  Margaret  he  heard  from 
acquaintances  of  yours  in  Paris  this  summer  that  you 
have  long  been  attached  to  a  lady  there  who  would 
in  every  respect  be  a  suitable  wife  for  you.     I  know 

40S 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

that  this  cannot  be  true.  Indeed,  I  know  it.  But  I 
implore  you  to  tell  me  yourself  that  it  is  not  true.  Set 
my  mind  at  rest.  The  limits  of  my  endurance  are 
reached.  Misery  is  undermining  my  health,  as  well  as 
all  the  nobler  elements  of  my  character.  I  am  a  prey 
to  insomnia,  and  to  obtain  sleep  I  am  obliged  to  have 
recourse  to  drugs.  I  grow  afraid  of  my  own  impulses. 
Dear  Adrian,  write  to  me.  Forgive  me.  Comfort  me. 
Reassure  me.  Yours, 

"Joanna  Smyrthwaite." 

Adrian  folded  up  the  letter  slowly,  returned  it  to  his 
pocket,  and  stood  thinking. 

Thanks  to  his  strong  dramatic  sense,  at  first  the  thing 
in  itself,  the  isolating  intensity  of  Joanna's  passion,  filled 
his  imagination.  Every  word  was  sincere,  dragged  live 
and  bleeding  out  of  her  heart.  Baldness  of  statement 
only  made  it  the  more  telling.  This  was  what  she  actu- 
ally believed  regarding  herself,  what  she  really  felt  and 
meant. — "The  limits  of  my  endurance  are  reached,  I 
suffer  too  much,  I  grow  afraid  of  my  own  impulses." 
This  was  not  a  way  of  talking,  rhetoric,  a  pose;  it  was 
reasoned  and  accurate  fact.  And,  if  he  understood 
Joanna  aright,  her  capacity  of  suffering  was  enormous. 
If  the  limit  of  endurance  had  now  been  reached,  about 
all  which  lay  short  of  that  limit  it  was  terrible  to  think ! 
She  had  been  tortured,  and  only  in  the  extremity  of 
torture  did  she  cry  for  help. 

But  here  Adrian's  dramatic  sense  gave  before  the 
common  instinct  of  humanity.  The  most  callous  of 
men  might  very  well  be  moved  by  Joanna's  letter;  and 
Adrian  was  among  the  least  callous  of  men,  especially 
where  a  woman  was  concerned.  Therefore,  for  him, 
practically,  what  followed?  This  question  struck  him 
as  quite  the  ugliest  he  had  ever  been  called  upon  to 
answer  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life.  To  use  poor 
Joanna's  favorite  catch- word,  a  "dreadful"  question — 

406 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

a  very  dreadful  question,  as  he  saw  it  just  now,  taking 
the  warmth  out  of  the  sunshine  and  the  color  out  of 
life.  He  recalled  those  extremely  disagreeable  ten  min- 
utes, spent  among  the  sweet  -  scented  allspice  bushes,  in 
the  garden  of  the  Tower  House.  He  had  argued  out 
the  question,  or  the  equivalent  of  the  question,  then — 
and,  as  he  had  believed,  answered  it  fully  and  finally, 
once  and  for  all.  But  apparently  he  hadn't  answered  it 
finally,  since  on  its  recurring  now  the  consequences  of 
either  alternative  presented  themselves  to  him  with 
such  merciless  distinctness. — The  fact  that  his  con- 
science was  clear  in  respect  of  Joanna,  that  she  was 
the  victim  of  self-invented  delusion — in  as  far  as  recipro- 
cal affection  on  his  part  went — made  little  appreciable 
difference  to  the  situation.  Indeed,  to  prove  his  own 
innocence  was  merely  to  cap  the  climax  of  her  humili- 
ation with  conviction  of  presumptuous  folly. 

Indescribably  perplexed  and  pained,  shocked  by  the 
position  in  which  he  found  himself,  Adrian  passed  ab- 
sently back  from  the  courtyard  into  the  salon.  He  had 
forgotten  the  third  affaire  Smyrthwaite  in  the  storm  and 
stress  of  the  second.  Here,  the  third  affaire  presented 
itself  to  him  under  a  guise  far  from  encouraging. 

Bibby,  the  whiteness  of  the  flannel  suit  bringing  out  his 
limp,  slatternly  yet  boyish  figure  into  high  relief  as 
against  the  red  Utrecht  velvet,  lay  crumpled  sideways 
in  the  largest  of  the  chairs.  His  legs  dangled  over  one 
arm  of  it,  his  head  nodded  forward,  sunk  between  his 
pointed  shoulders,  his  chin  rested  on  his  breast.  An 
ill-conditioned,  hopeless,  irreclaimable  fellow!  Yet  still 
the  family  likeness  to  Joanna  remained — to  the  de- 
graded Joanna  of  the  "funny  pictures"  upon  Rend  Dax's 
studio  wall — a  Joanna  wearing  his,  Adrian's,  clothes, 
moreover,  whose  mouth  hung  open  as  he  breathed  ster- 
torously  in  almost  bestial  after-dinner  sleep. 

Adrian  looked  once,  picked  up  his  hat,  and  fled. 

For  the  ensuing  three  or  four  hours  he  walked  aimlessly 
407 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

up  and  down  the  streets  of  Rouen,  along  the  pleasant 
tree-planted  boulevards  and  the  quays  beside  the  broad, 
silent-flowing  Seine.  He  was  aware  of  lights,  of  blottings 
of  black  shadow,  of  venerable  buildings  rich  in  beautiful 
detail,  of  the  brightly  lighted  interiors  of  wine-shops 
and  cafts  open  to  the  pavement,  of  people  loud-voiced 
and  insistent,  and  of  vehicles — these  in  lessening  num- 
ber as  it  drew  toward  midnight — passing  by.  But  all  his 
impressions  were  indefinite,  his  vision  strangely  blurred. 
He  walked,  as  a  living  man  might  walk  through  a  phan- 
tom city  peopled  by  chaffering  ghosts,  for  all  that  his 
surroundings  meant  to  him,  his  thoughts  concentrated 
upon  the  overwhelming  personal  drama,  and  personal 
question,  raised  by  Joanna's  letter. 

Must  he,  taking  his  courage  rather  brutally  in  both 
hands,  disillusion  her  and  risk  the  results  of  such  dis- 
illusionment? Chivalry,  pity,  humanity,  the  very  honor 
of  his  manhood,  protested  as  against  some  dastardly  and 
unpardonable  act  of  physical  cruelty.  How  he  wished 
she  hadn't  employed  that  illustration  of  blindness  and 
sight!  The  thought  of  her  pale  eyes  fixed  on  him,  dot- 
ing, imploring,  worshiping,  hungry  with  unsatisfied 
passion,  starving  for  his  love,  pursued  him,  making  itself 
almost  visible  to  his  outward  sense.  How  was  it  possible 
to  sear  those  poor  eyes,  extinguishing  light  in  them  for- 
ever by  application  of  the  white-hot  iron  of  truth?  Be- 
fore God,  he  could  not  do  it !     It  was  too  horrible. 

And  yet,  the  alternative — to  lie  to  her,  to  lie  to  love, 
to  be  false  to  himself,  to  be  false  to  the  hope  and  purpose 
of  years,  didn't  his  manhood,  every  mental,  and  moral, 
and — very  keenly — every  physical  fiber  of  him  protest 
equally  against  that  ?  He  saw  Gabrielle  as  he  had  seen 
her  only  this  afternoon,  in  her  fresh,  grave  beauty,  the 
promise  of  hidden  delights,  of  enchanting  discoveries  in 
her  mysterious  smile.  Saw,  as  he  so  happily  believed,  a 
certain  awakening  of  her  heart  and  sense  toward  the 
joys  which  man  has  with  woman  and  woman  with  man. 

408 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

How  could  he  consent  to.  cut  himself  from  all  this  and 
take  Joanna's  meager  and  unlovely  body  in  his  arms? 
It  wasn't  to  be  done.  He  turned  faint  with  loathing  and 
unspeakable  distress,  staggered  as  though  drunk,  nearly 
fell. 

Bibby  Smyrthwaite  and  Joseph  Challoner  for  brothers, 
Margaret  Smyrthwaite  for  sister,  Joanna  for  bride — this, 
all  which  went  along  with  it  and  which  of  necessity 
it  implied,  was  more  than  he  could  face.  He  would 
rather  be  dead,  rather  ten  thousand  times.  He  said  so 
in  perfect  honesty,  knowing  that  were  the  final  choice 
offered  him  now  and  here,  notwithstanding  his  im- 
mense value  of  life  and  joy  in  living  he  would  choose 
to  die. 

But  in  point  of  fact  no  such  choice  was  offered  him, 
since  in  his  opinion  it  is  the  act  of  a  most  contempt- 
ible poltroon  to  avoid  the  issue  by  means  of  self- 
inflicted  death.  No,  he  must  take  the  consequences  of 
his  own  actions,  and  poor  Joanna  must  take  the  conse- 
quences of  her  own  actions — in  obedience  to  the  funda- 
mental natural  and  moral  law  which  none  escape.  And 
among  those  consequences,  both  of  her  and  of  his  own  past 
actions,  was  the  cruel  suffering  which  he  found  himself 
constrained  to  inflict.  He  shrank,  he  sickened,  for  to  be 
cruel  was  hateful  to  him,  a  violation  of  his  nature.  In 
a  sort  of  despair  he  went  back  upon  the  whole  question, 
arguing  it  through  once  more,  wearily,  painfully,  point 
by  point. 

Adrian's  aimless  wanderings  had,  now,  conducted  him 
to  a  small  public  garden  laid  out  with  flower  borders, 
shrubberies,  and  carefully  tended  islands  of  turf,  beneath 
the  shadow  of  a  chaste  yet  florid  fifteenth-century  church. 
Clerestory  windows  glinted  high  above,  touched  by  the. 
lamplight,  and  flying  buttresses,  thick  with  fantastic 
carven  flowers  and  little  lurking  demons,  formed  a  lace- 
work  of  stone  against  the  sky.  He  sat  down  on  one  of 
the  garden  benches,  laying  his  hat  beside  him  on  the  seat. 

409 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

He  doubled  himself  together,  his  elbows  upon  his  knees, 
pressing  his  hands  against  either  side  of  his  head. 

He  was  very  tired.  He  was  also  desperately  sad.  Never 
before  had  he  felt  the  chill  breath  of  a  trouble  from  which 
there  seemed  no  issue  save  by  the  creation  of  further, 
deeper  trouble.  Never  before  had  he — so  it  now  appeared 
to  him — gauged  the  possibilities  of  tragedy  in  human 
life.  And  the  present  situation  had  grown  out  of  such 
wholly  accidental  happenings — well-meant  kindnesses 
and  courtesies,  an  overstrained  delicacy  in  admitting 
the  reality  of  poor  Joanna's  infatuation  and  making  her 
understand  that  his  affections  were  engaged  elsewhere. 
In  his  fear  of  assuming  too  much  and  appearing  fatuous, 
he  had  let  things  drift.  He  had  been  guilty  of  saying 
that  fatal  word  "too  little"  against  which  dear  Anas- 
tasia  Beauchamp  to-day  fulminated.  There  he  was  to 
blame.  There  was  his  real  error,  his  real  mistake.  It 
gnawed  mercilessly  at  his  conscience  and  his  sensibility. 
It  would  continue  so  to  gnaw,  whatever  the  upshot  of  this 
disastrous  business,  as  long  as  he  lived.  In  the  restrained 
and  conventional  intercourse  of  modern,  civilized  life,  the 
difficulty  of  avoiding  that  fatal  word  "  too  little  "  is  so 
constant  and  so  great.  His  mind,  spent  with  thought 
and  emotion,  dwelt  with  languid  persistence  upon  this 
point.  In  this  particular  he  had  shirked  his  duty  both 
to  Joanna  and  to  himself,  with  the  terrible  result  that  he 
was  doomed  to  inflict  a  cruel  injury  upon  her  or  to  wreck 
his  own  life. 

And  at  that  moment,  dully,  without  any  quickening  of 
interest,  amiable  or  the  reverse,  he  perceived  that  a  young 
woman  sat  at  the  farther  end  of  the  bench.  When  he 
came  to  think  of  it,  he  believed  she  had  followed  him 
through  the  streets  for  some  little  time.  Now  she 
coughed  slightly  and  moved  rather  nearer  to  him,  fid- 
geted, pushing  about  the  loose,  shingly  gravel,  which 
made  small  rattling  noises,  with  her  foot.  Adrian  still 
sat  doubled  together  pressing  his  hands  against  either 

410 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

side  of  his  head.  Presently  she  began  to  speak,  making 
overtures  to  him,  praising  his  handsome  looks,  his  youth 
his  dress,  his  bearing,  his  walk,  nattering  and  wheedling 
him  after  the  manner  of  her  sorry  kind.  While  express- 
ing admiration  and  offering  endearing  phrases,  her  voice 
remained  toneless  and  monotonous.  And  this  peculiar- 
ity rather  than  what  she  said  aroused  Adrian's  attention. 
He  looked  round  and  received  a  definite  impression,  not- 
withstanding the  dimness  of  the  light.  Her  reddish  hair 
was  turned  loosely  back  from  her  forehead.  Her  face 
was  gaunt  and  worn  under  its  layer  of  fard.  Her  mouth 
was  large,  and  the  painted  lips,  though  coarse,  were 
sensitive— her  soul  had  not  yet  been  killed  by  her  infa- 
mous trade.  Her  eyes  were  pale,  desperate  with  shame 
and  with  entreaty.  And  these  were  the  eyes  which,  if  he 
would  save  all  which  made  life  noble  and  dear  to  him, 
Adrian  must  strike  blind ! 

During  some  few  seconds  he  looked  straight  at  her. 
Then,  feeling  among  the  loose  coins  in  his  pocket,  he 
found  a  gold  twenty-franc  piece  and  put  it  into  her 
hand. 

"  It  is  no  use,"  he  said  gravely  and  very  sadly — speak- 
ing whether  to  her  or  to  Joanna  Smyrthwaite  he  could 
not  tell.  "I  do  not  want  you.  My  poor  woman,  I  do 
not  want  you.  It  is  not  possible  that  I  ever  should  want 
you.  I  am  bitterly  grieved  for  you,  but  you  waste 
your  time." 

And  he  rose  and  moved  away,  having  suddenly  re- 
gained full  possession  of  himself.  He  had  ceased  to 
doubt  in  respect  of  Joanna.  That  passing  of  money 
was  to  him  symbolic,  setting  him  free.  He  understood 
that  to  marry  Joanna  would  be  a  crime  against  God- 
given  instinct,  against  God-given  love,  against  the  God- 
given  beauty  of  all  wholesome  and  natural  things.  The 
sour,  pedantic,  man-imagined  deity  of  some  Protestant 
sect  might  demand  such  hideous,  almost  blasphemous 
sacrifice  from  its  votaries;  but  never  that  supreme  artist, 
27  •    4" 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Almighty  God  the  Creator,  maker  of  man's  flesh  as  well 
as  of  his  spirit,  le  bon  Dieu  of  the  divinely  reasonable  and 
divinely  human  Catholic  Church.  To  marry  Joanna 
would,  in  the  end,  constitute  a  blacker  cruelty  than  to 
tell  her  the  whole  truth.  For  he  couldn't  live  up  to  that 
lie  and  keep  it  going.  He  would  hate  her,  and  sooner 
or  later  show  that  he  hated  her ;  he  would  inevitably  be 
unfaithful  to  her  and  leave  her,  thereby  ruining  her  life 
as  well  as  his  own. 

He  went  back  to  the  hotel.  The  little  red  Utrecht- 
velvet  upholstered  salon  still  smelled  of  cooking,  pat- 
chouli, and  cigarettes,  plus  the  dregs  of  a  tumbler  of 
brandy  and  soda  and  a  something  human  and  insuffi- 
ciently washed.  Smyrthwaite's  door  was  shut,  and  no 
sound  proceeded  from  behind  it,  for  which  Adrian  re- 
turned thanks  and  betook  himself  to  bed.  He  was  dog- 
tired.  He  slept  till  broad  day.  On  making  a  morning 
reconnaissance  he  found  Smyrthwaite's  door  still  locked, 
nor  did  knocking  elicit  any  response.  Somewhat  anx- 
ious, he  went  out  into  the  courtyard.  The  window 
was  ajar,  the  room  vacant,  the  bed  undisturbed.  Then 
he  remembered  to  have  seen  a  tall,  slight,  loosely  made 
figure,  wearing  whitish  garments,  flitting  hastily  away 
down  a  dim  side-street  as  he  turned  into  the  rue  Jeanne 
d'Arc  on  his  way  home.  Later  Adrian  discovered  that 
a  pair  of  diamond  and  enamel  sleeve-links,  a  set  of  pearl 
studs,  some  loose  gold  and  a  hundred-franc  note  were 
missing  from  his  suit-case,  of  which  the  fastening  had 
been  forced. 

True  to  his  predatory  and  roving  instincts,  Bibby  had 
"pinched"  what  he  could  and  left. 


CHAPTER   VII 

SOME    PASSAGES    FROM    JOANNA    SMYRTHWAITE'S    LOCKED 

BOOK 

THE  long  drought  broke  at  last  in  an  afternoon  and 
night  of  thunder  and  scourging  violence  of  rain, 
drowning  out  summer.  A  week  of  chill  westerly  weather 
followed,  lowering  gray  skies,  a  perpetual  lament  of 
wind  through  the  great  woodland,  combined  with  a 
soaking,  misty  drizzle  which  forced  the  firs  and  pines 
into  their  blue-black  winter  habit  and  rusted  the  pink 
spires  of  the  heather.  The  flower-garden,  dashed  by  the 
initial  downpour,  became  daily  more  sodden,  its  glory 
very  sensibly  departed.  Water  stood  in  pools  on  the 
lawns.  Leaves,  dessicated  by  the  continuous  sun-scorch, 
fell  in  dingy  brown  showers  from  the  beeches;  and  a 
robin,  perching  upon  one  of  the  posts  of  the  tennis-net, 
practised  the  opening,  plaintively  sweet  notes  of  his 
autumn  song. 

On  the  Thursday  evening  of  this  wet  week,  Joanna 
Smyrthwaite  went  to  her  room  immediately  after  dinner, 
and,  lighting  the  candles,  sat  down  at  her  bureau.  The 
rain  beat  against  the  windows.  She  heard  it  drip  with 
a  continuous  montonous  tapping  off  the  edge  of  the 
balcony  on  to  the  glass  and  tile  roof  of  the  veranda 
below.  She  heard  the  intermittent  sighing  sweep  of 
the  wind  through  the  near  trees,  and  the  wet  sucking 
sob  of  it  in  the  hinges  and  fastenings  of  the  casements. 
Nature  wept,  now  petulently,  now,  as  it  seemed,  with  the 
resignation  of  despair;  and  Joanna,  sitting  at  the  bureau 
with  her  diary  open  before  her,  listened  to  that  weeping. 

4i3 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

It  offered  a  fitting  accompaniment  to  her  gloomy  con- 
centration and  exaltation  of  mind. 

''August   2Q,    IQO- 

"I  supposed  that  I  should  have  received  an  answer 
to  my  letter  in  the  course  of  to-day  at  latest,  but  none 
has  reached  me,"  she  wrote.  "I  am  not  conscious  of 
regretting  the  delay.  The  reply,  when  it  does  come, 
can  only  confirm  that  which  I  already  now  know.  I 
am  no  longer  in  suspense,  and  I  wait  to  receive  the  reply 
merely  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  its  falling  into  other 
hands  than  my  own.  That  I  could  not  permit.  Although 
it  can  modify  neither  my  intention  nor  my  thought,  it  is 
mine,  it  belongs  to  me  alone;  and  I  refuse  to  allow  the 
vulgar  curiosity  of  any  third  person  to  be  satisfied  by 
perusal  of  it.  I  am  sure  that  I  do  not  regret  the  de- 
lay. It  gives  me  time  to  reckon  with  myself  and  with 
all  that  has  occurred.  It  also  gives  me  time  to  test 
myself  and  make  sure  that  I  am  not  swayed  by  impulse, 
but  that  my  will  is  active  and  my  reason  unbiased  by 
feeling.  I  am  quite  calm.  I  have  been  so  all  day.  For  this 
I  am  thankful,  although  whether  my  calmness  arises  from 
self-control  or  from  physical  incapacity  of  further  emo- 
tion I  cannot  decide.  I  do  not  know  that  the  cause  really 
matters,  yet  I  should  prefer  to  believe  it  self-control." 

Joanna  paused,  leaning  upon  her  elbow  and  listening 
to  the  sobbing  of  wind  and  rain. 

"I  suppose  finality  must  always  produce  repose,  how- 
ever dreadful  the  cost  at  which  finality  is  obtained. 
Only  so  can  I  account  for  my  existing  attitude  of  mind. 
I  want,  if  I  can,  to  put  down  clearly  and  consecutively 
exactly  what  happened  last  night.  I  think  it  may  be 
useful  to  me  in  face  of  this  period  of  waiting  for  the 
answer  to  my  letter;  also,  I  wish  to  live  through  it 
again  step  by  step.  I  have  learned  very  much  dur- 
ing the  last  twenty-four  hours.  I  have  learned  that 
pain,  self-inflicted  pain,  can  be  voluptuous.     Even  a  few 

414 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

days  ago  I  should  have  been  scandalized  by  such  an 
admission.  I  am  no  longer  scandalized.  Torture  has 
emancipated  me  from  many  delusions  and  overnice 
prejudices.  I  have  not  time  now,  even  had  I  still  in- 
clination, to  be  overnice. 

"Margaret  and  Marion  Chase  dined  in  town  and  went 
to  the  theater  with  Mr.  Challoner  last  night.  A  London 
touring  company  is  giving  some  musical  comedy  at 
Stourmouth.  When  they  returned  I  was  still  awake.  I 
had  not  taken  any  of  the  tabloids  Doctor  Norbiton  gave 
me  to  procure  sleep.  I  did  not  care  to  sleep.  I  pre- 
ferred to  think.  Margaret  and  Marion  remained  some 
time  upon  the  gallery  laughing  and  talking  rather  ex- 
citedly. They  kept  on  repeating  scraps  of  a  frivolous 
song  which  they  had  heard  at  the  play;  and  of  which,  so 
Margaret  told  me  to-day — she  apologized  for  the  thought- 
less disturbance  they  had  made — neither  could  remember 
the  exact  tune.  Their  voices  and  the 'interest  they  evi- 
dently took  in  so  senseless  and  trivial  a  thing  jarred  upon 
me.  I  felt  annoyed  and  resentful.  Their  behavior  offered 
such  a  startling  contrast  to  my  own  trouble  and  to  the 
whole  tenor  of  my  life  that  I  could  not  but  be  displeased 
by  their  light-mindedness.  I  felt  my  own  superiority. 
I  did  not  attempt  to  disguise  the  fact  of  that  superiority 
from  myself.  I  despised  them.  I  may  have  done 
wrong  in  despising  them,  but  I  did  not  care.  The  am- 
bition to  assert  myself,  in  some  striking  and  forcible 
manner  which  should  compel  recognition  not  only  from 
Margaret  and  Marion,  but  from  the  whole  circle  of  our 
acquaintance,  took  possession  of  me.  I  have  always 
shrunk  from  publicity  and  been  weakly  sensitive  to 
criticism  and  remark.  I  have  been  disposed  to  efface 
myself.  To  rule  others  has  been  an  effort  to  me.  Any 
influence  I  may  have  exercised  has  been  exercised 
in  obedience  not  to  inclination  but  to  my  sense  of  duty. 
Now  I  felt  differently.  I  felt  my  nature  and  intelligence 
had  never  found  their  full  expression,  that  the  strength 

4i5 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

of  my  character  had  never  fully  disclosed  itself.  I  de- 
sired— I  still  desire — to  manifest  what  I  really  am,  of 
what  I  am  capable.  I  even  crave  after  the  astonish- 
ment and  possible  alarm  such  a  disclosure  would  create. 

"  Thinking  steadily,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  this  desire 
for  entire  and  arresting  self-expression  is  not  actually 
new  in  me.  I  saw  that  I  have  always,  implicitly  though 
silently,  entertained  a  conviction  that  the  opportunity 
for  self-expression  would  eventually  present  itself.  This 
conviction  has  supported  me  under  many  mortifications. 
In  the  events  of  the  last  six  months  that  opportunity 
appeared  in  process  of  taking  tangible  and  very  perfect 
shape.  More  than  my  imagination  had  ever  dared  sug- 
gest was  in  process  of  being  granted  me.  If  I  married 
Adrian — " 

Joanna  raised  her  hand  from  the  paper,  or  rather  it 
raised  itself,  with  a  jerk,  refusing  further  obedience.  She 
sat  stiffly  upright,  listening  to  the  wind  and  the  rain. 
The  steady  drip  off  the  edge  of  the  balcony  on  to  the  roof 
below  sounded  indescribably  mournful  in  its  single, 
muffled,  reiterated  note.  Taken  in  connection  with  the 
words  she  had  just  written, that  mournfulness  threatened 
her  composure.  The  muscles  of  her  poor  face  twitched 
and  her  winged  nostrils  quivered,  in  her  effort  to  repress 
an  outbreak  of  emotion.  After  a  struggle  she  turned 
fiercely  to  her  open  diary. 

"If  I  married  Adrian  Savage,"  she  wrote,  "this,  in  it- 
self, would  bear  indisputable  witness  to  the  fact  of  my 
superiority,  would  justify  me  to  myself  and  command  the 
respect  of  others.  But,  last  night,  I  saw  it  was  necessary 
to  go  beyond  that,  and  ask  myself  a  question  which,  even 
in  my  worst  hours  of  doubt,  I  have  never  had  sufficient 
fortitude  to  ask  myself  before.  I  am  anxious  here  to 
state  positively  that  I  did  ask  myself  the  said  question ; 
and  that  I  answered  it  deliberately  and  calmly  before 
certain  things  happened,  which  I  shall  presently  set 
down.     If  I  did  not  marry  Adrian — " 

416 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Again  Joanna's  hand  jerked  away  from  the  paper, 
while  every  nerve  in  her  body  was  contracted  by  a  spasm 
of  almost  intolerable  pain.  She  put  her  left  hand  over 
her  heart,  gasping,  the  agony  for  the  moment  was  so 
mercilessly  acute.  Yet,  during  that  same  moment,  the  old 
doting,  ecstatic  expression  overspread  her  face.  In  a 
sense  she  welcomed,  she  gloried,  in  this  visitation  of  pain. 

"If  I  did  not  marry  Adrian,"  she  went  on,  "what 
then  ?  The  need  for  self-justification,  the  need  for  en- 
tire self-expression,  would  in  that  very  dreadful  event 
become  more  than  ever  desirable — the  only  solace,  in- 
deed, which  could  remain  to  me.  Therefore,  what  had 
better  happen  ?  What — because  I  definitely  and  irrevo- 
cably willed  it — must  and  should  happen  ?  I  answered 
the  question  last  night,  and  my  purpose  has  never 
wavered.  To-day  I  have  spent  some  time  in  examining 
the  stock  arguments  against  this  purpose  of  mine.  They 
do  not  affect  my  determination,  as  I  find  that  each  one 
of  them  is  based  upon  some  assumption  which  my  reason 
condemns  as  unsound  and  inadequate,  or  which  is  not 
applicable  in  my  peculiar  case.  I  know  what  I  am 
going  to  do.  The  relief  of  that  knowledge  was  immedi- 
ate.    It  continues  to  sustain  me." 

Here  Joanna  rose  and  paced  the  room.  She  still 
wore  the  black  silk  and  lace  evening  gown  she  had  worn 
at  dinner.  Her  hair  was  dressed  with  greater  care  than 
usual.  Plain,  flat-bosomed,  meager,  hard  lines  seaming 
her  cheeks  and  forehead,  yet  there  was  nothing  broken  or 
weak  in  her  bearing  or  aspect.  Rather  did  she  show  as 
a  somewhat  tremendous  creature,  pacing  thus,  solitary, 
the  familiar  and  soberly  luxurious  room,  bearing  with 
indomitable  pride  the  whole  realized  depth  and  height 
of  her  trouble* — a  trouble  to  the  thought  of  which,  even 
while  it  racked  her,  she  clung  with  jealous  obstinacy  as 
her  sole  possession  of  supreme  and  splendid  worth.  Her 
restlessness  being  somewhat  assuaged,  she  went  back 
and  sat  down  to  write. 

4i7 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"I  do  not  attempt  to  account  for  what  followed;  I 
only  set  it  down  in  good  faith  and  with  such  accuracy  as 
my  memory  permits.  My  memory  has  always  been 
good,  and,  since  now  I  have  nothing  left  to  gain  or  to  lose, 
I  have  no  temptation  either  to  invent  or  to  falsify. 
About  an  hour  after  Margaret  and  Marion  Chase  re- 
turned from  the  theater,  and  without  any  intervening 
period  of  unconsciousness — my  mind,  indeed,  still  occu- 
pied with  the  decision  I  had  arrived  at  regarding  my 
future  action — I  found  myself  walking  through  the 
streets  of  some  foreign  city.  I  was  anxiously  following 
a  person  of  whose  name  and  character  I  was  ignorant, 
but  who  I  was  aware  had  a  message  of  great  importance 
which  he  needed  to  deliver  to  me,  and  to  whom  I  felt  an 
overpowering  wish  to  speak.  He  walked  apparently  with- 
out any  particular  destination  in  view,  yet  so  rapidly  that 
I  found  it  difficult  to  keep  him  in  sight.  Being  tall,  how- 
ever, and  of  fashionable  appearance,  he,  fortunately  for 
me,  was  easily  distinguishable  from  all  other  persons 
whom  I  met. 

"I  say,  / — yet  I  am  conscious,  dreadfully,  even  in- 
famously, conscious,  that  throughout  I  shared  this  ex- 
perience with  a  woman  of  different  antecedents,  of  a 
lower  social  position  and  inferior  education  to  myself. 
Our  two  personalities  inhabited  one  and  the  same  body, 
for  independent  possession  and  control  of  which  we  con- 
tended without  intermission,  sometimes  I,  sometimes 
she,  gaining  the  advantage.  This  association  was  very 
frightful  to  me.  I  felt  soiled  by  it.  And,  not  only  did  I 
in  myself  feel  soiled,  but  hopes,  emotions,  aspirations 
which  until  now  I  had  believed  to  be  pure  and  elevated, 
assumed  a  vile  aspect  when  shared  by  this  woman's  mind 
and  heart.  Still  I  knew  that  of  necessity  I  must  remain 
with  her,  continue  to  be,  in  a  sense,  part  of  her,  if  I  was 
to  get  speech  of  the  man  whom  I — we — followed,  and 
to  receive  the  message  which  he  had  to  deliver. 

"  After  long  wandering  through  streets,  some  modern 
418 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

and  reminding  me  of  Paris,  others  narrow,  crooked,  and 
lined  with  ancient  houses,  I  came  to  a  small,  formally 
laid-out  pleasure  garden  in  the  center  of  the  town, 
dominated  by  a  singularly  beautiful  Gothic  building,' 
probably  a  church.  Benches  were  placed  at  intervals 
round  the  garden  along  the  shingled  paths,  between 
massed  shrubs  and  beds  of  heliotrope  and  roses.  Upon 
one  of  these  benches,  being  overcome  by  fatigue  and  by  a 
conviction  of  unescapable  fate,  I  sat  down.  So  doing,  I 
perceived  that,  at  the  far  end  of  the  bench,  the  man  whom 
I  had  so  long  followed  already  sat.  His  attitude  was 
expressive  of  extreme  dejection.  His  figure  was  bowed 
together.  His  elbows  rested  upon  his  knees,  his  hands 
were  pressed  against  the  sides  of  his  head.  I  felt  drawn 
to  him  not  only  by  a  very  vital  attraction,  but  by  pity, 
for  I  could  not  doubt  that,  for  some  cause,  he  had  re- 
cently suffered  severely,  and  was  suffering  severely  even 
now.  I  saw  that  this  suffering  blinded  him  to  the  outer 
things,  rendering  him  quite  indifferent  to  or  unaware  of 
my  presence.  Notwithstanding  which,  I — or  she — the 
woman  to  whom  my  personality  was  so  horribly  united — 
after  making  some  vulgar  efforts  to  arouse  his  attention, 
began  to  speak  to  him,  pouring  forth,  to  my  utter  and 
inextinguishable  shame,  a  gross  travesty  of  my  love 
for  Adrian  Savage,  of  my  most  secret  thoughts  and  sen- 
sations in  relation  to  that  love,  of  my  joy  in  his  pres- 
ence, of  my  admiration  for  his  talents,  even  for  his  per- 
son, employing  words  and  phrases  meanwhile  of  a  nature 
revolting  to  me  which  outraged  my  sense  of  propriety 
and  self-respect  —  words  and  phrases  which  I  was  ut- 
terly incapable  of  using  and  of  which  I  had  never  in- 
deed gauged  the  actual  meaning  until  they  passed  her 
lips. 

"A  considerable  time  passed  before  the  man  gave  any 
sign  that  he  heard  what  she — what  I — said.  He  re- 
mained immersed  in  thought,  his  head  bent,  his  hands 
supporting  it.     At  last — " 

419 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

And  Joanna  closed  her  eyes,  waiting  for  a  space,  listen- 
ing to  the  sobbing  of  wind  and  dripping  of  rain. 

"  — he  looked  round  at  me.  His  face, ' '  she  wrote,  "was 
that  of  Adrian ;  but  of  an  Adrian  whom  I  had  never  seen 
before.  It  was  worn  and  very  pale.  There  were  blue 
stains  beneath  the  eyes.  All  the  gaiety,  the  beautiful, 
self  -  confident  strength  and  hopefulness  were  banished 
from  his  expression,  which  was  very  stern  though  not 
actually  unkind.  Then  I  knew  that  he  had  received 
and  read  my  letter;  that  the  marks  of  suffering  which 
he  bore  had  been  caused  by  the  contents  of  my  letter. 
I  knew  that  the  message  which  he  had  to  deliver  to  me, 
and  to  obtain  which  I  had  followed  him  through  the 
streets,  forcing  myself  into  union  with  this  vicious  woman 
— in  whose  speech  and  actions  I  so  dreadfully  partici- 
pated— was  nothing  less  than  his  answer  to  that  letter. 

"At  last,  looking  fixedly  at  me,  he  said,  very  sadly: 
'It  is  no  use.  I  do  not  want  you.  Poor  woman,  I  do 
not  want  you.  It  is  not  possible  that  I  should  ever 
want  you.  I  am  bitterly  grieved  for  you;  but  you 
waste  your  time.' 

"As  he  spoke  he  placed  some  money  in  her  hand, 
and,  having  finished  speaking,  he  rose  and  went  away. 
Not  once  did  he  hesitate  or  look  back,  but  held  himself 
erect  and  walked  as  a  man  whose  decision  is  deliberate. 
She  clutched  the  money  tightly,  whimpering;  but  I 
had  no  part  in  her  tears.  I  had  no  disposition  to  cry 
then;  nor  have  I  had  any  since.  I  understood  what 
that  piece  of  money  meant.  It  was  the  price  of  Adrian's 
freedom  from  my  love.     He  paid  me  to  go  away. 

"I  remember  noticing  the  fantastic  carven  stone- 
work of  the  church  outlined  against  the  night  sky,  while 
shame  and  despair  devoured  me — shame  and  despair  in- 
timate, merciless,  unmitigated.  Still  clutching  the  piece 
of  money,  the  woman  got  up.  I  do  not  know  anything 
more  about  her,  what  she  did,  or  who  she  was,  or 
where  she  went.     For  a  time,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned, 

420 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

the  pulse  of  the  world  ceased  to  beat.  And  then  I  lay- 
here,  at  home,  in  my  own  room  at  the  Tower  House,  and 
heard  the  rain  and  wind  in  the  trees  just  as  I  hear  them 
to-night. 

"When  Isherwood  brought  me  my  tea,  at  half -past 
seven,  she  expressed  concern  at  my  appearance.  I  told 
her  I  had  not  slept  and  that  I  felt  tired  and  faint.  She 
insisted  upon  sending  for  Doctor  Norbiton.  I  let  her 
do  so.  It  was  matter  of  indifference  to  me  whether  I 
saw  him  or  not.  Nothing  can  change  either  facts  or 
the  event.  But  Isherwood  has  always  been  kind  and 
faithful  to  me.  I  did  not  want  to  hurt  her  by  opposing 
her  wishes.  Doctor  Norbiton  sounded  my  heart.  He 
told  both  Isherwood  and  Margaret  it  was  in  a  weak 
state ;  but  added  that  he  believed  such  mischief  as  exists 
to  be  functional  rather  than  organic.  He  recommended 
me  to  take  the  tabloids,  which  he  gave  me  for  insomnia, 
sparingly,  as  their  effect  upon  the  heart  is  depressing. 
I  listened  and  agreed.  Margaret  expressed  regret  at  my 
condition.  She  offered  to  see  Rossiter  for  me  and  spare 
me  the  trouble  of  housekeeping.     I  let  her  do  so. 

"  It  has  rained  all  day;  but  I  have  been  fully  occupied 
in  going  through  papers  and  accounts,  and  making  sure 
that  my  own  affairs  and  those  of  the  household  are  in 
perfect  order.  This  almost  mechanical  work  is  soothing. 
I  have  always  been  fond  of  accounts.  I  remain  quite  calm. 
Why  should  I  be  otherwise?  I  know  the  truth,  and 
have  nothing  left,  therefore,  either  to  fear  or  to  hope." 

The  following  evening  Joseph  Challoner  was  due  to 
dine  at  the  Tower  House.  Pleading  a  return  of  faint- 
ness  and  disinclination  for  conversation,  Joanna  re- 
mained up-stairs  in  the  blue  sitting-room  and  retired 
early  to  bed.     The  next  entry  in  her  diary  reads  thus: 

"The  Tower  House,  August  30,  190-,  9  p.m. 
"I  let  Isherwood  undress  me.     I  asked  her  for  my 
white  pleated  neglige,  which  I  found  she  had  sent  to  the 

421 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

cleaners'  during  the  time  my  hands  were  hurt  and  I  had 
been  obliged  to  give  her  my  keys.  I  am  glad  to  wear  it 
to-night.  Isherwood  was  very  kind  and  attentive  to  me. 
I  could  almost  think  she  suspected  something,  but  I  did 
what  I  could  to  dissipate  any  suspicion  she  might  enter- 
tain. I  promised  her  I  would  call  her  if  I  wanted  her 
during  the  night;  but  all  that  I  really  needed  is  quiet. 
This  is  perfectly  true.     I  do  need  quiet,  unbroken  quiet. 

"Still  I  must  try  to  put  down  events  in  their  proper 
order. — And  first,  I  feel  it  is  only  just  that  I  should  note 
how  much  I  have  thought  of  papa  during  these  last  two 
very  dreadful  days.  I  have  felt  singularly  near  to  him 
in  spirit  and  in  sympathy.  I  know  that  I  have  rebelled 
against  his  methods ;  and  have  both  thought  and  spoken 
harshly  of  him.  I  am  sorry  for  this.  I  see  now  that, 
in  his  position  and  possessing  his  authority,  I  should 
have  acted  as  he  did.  He  valued  wealth  as  lightly  as 
I  do;  though  he  was  interested  in  the  acquisition  of 
it.  Business  to  him  was  an  occupation  rather  than  an 
end  in  itself.  He  craved  for  entire  self-expression — 
as  I  have  craved  for  it;  and  it  was  impossible  for  him 
to  find  such  expression  in  business.  In  public  affairs, 
economic  or  social  reform,  he  might  have  found  it;  and 
to  the  last,  I  believe,  he  hoped  some  opportunity  of 
entire  self-expression  would  present  itself.  That,  I  think, 
was  why  he  disliked  the  idea  of  dying.  He  was  ambi- 
tious of  impressing  himself  upon  the  mind  of  his  genera- 
tion in  the  manner  he  inwardly  felt  himself  capable  of 
doing.  It  hurt  and  angered  him  to  leave  life  with  his 
personal  equation  unrecorded.  He  knew  himself — as  I 
have  known  myself — to  be  superior  to  others  both  in  in- 
tellect and  in  the  nature  of  his  aims  and  ambitions. 
He  despised  weakness.  He  despised  what  is  common, 
trivial,  ignorant.  He  could  not  tolerate  that  those 
about  him  should  run  after  cheap  pleasures  in  which 
the  mind  has  no  part. 

"  This  morning,  about  twelve  o'clock,  the  rain  lessened. 
422 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

I  ordered  the  carriage  and  drove  by  myself  to  the  West 
Stourmouth  Cemetery.  Leaving  the  carriage  at  the 
entrance  gates,  I  walked  to  his  grave.  The  cemetery  is 
still  but  partially  laid  out.  Patches  of  heather  remain, 
making  the  tombstones  and  monuments  look  bare  and 
white.  I  am  glad  papa's  grave  is  on  the  highest  ground. 
Standing  by  it,  I  saw,  through  scuds  of  driving  mist,  the 
Baughurst  Woods,  sloping  to  the  shore,  and  beyond  them 
the  sea.  The  loneliness  of  this  growing  camp  of  the 
dead  was  sympathetic  to  me.  I  am  leaving  instructions 
that  I  am  to  be  buried  beside  papa's  grave,  if  not  in  it. 
I  have  never  been  so  much  of  a  companion  or  help  to 
any  one  as  to  him.  He,  at  least,  wanted  me,  though 
he  often  frightened  and  wounded  me.  So  I  will  go 
back  to  him  in  death ;  and  lie  beside  him  in  the  rain,  and 
snow,  and  wind,  and  sunshine  out  there  under  the  barren 
gravel  of  the  moor. 

"  I  received  Adrian's  answer  to  my  letter  by  the  six- 
o'clock  post  this  evening.  I  feared  giving  way  to 
emotion  on  opening  it;  but  I  experienced  very  little 
emotion.  Of  this  I  am  glad.  I  am  glad,  too,  infinitely 
glad,  that  I  determined  what  I  would  do  before  I  so 
strangely  saw  Adrian  and  spoke  with  him  the  night 
before  last.  If  I  had  not  determined  my  state  of  mind 
would  have  been  far  more  agonizing.  Calmness  and 
self-respect  would  have  been  impossible.  Margaret  was 
with  me  in  the  blue  sitting-room  when  Edwin  brought 
me  my  letters.  I  do  not  know  whether  she  observed 
that  I  received  one  from  Adrian.  I  fancy  not.  I 
waited  until  she  had  gone  before  reading  it.  It  proved 
just  such  a  letter  as  I  might  have  anticipated,  written 
with  every  intention  of  kindness.  It  exhibits  his  char- 
acter in  a  very  agreeable  light — affectionate,  courteous, 
penetrated  by  regret  on  my  account.  He  does  his 
utmost  to  spare  my  feelings  and  soften  the  blow  he  is 
compelled  to  deal  me.  I  appreciate  all  this.  He  praises 
my  intelligence,  and  points  out  to  me,  very  gracefully, 

423 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

the  advantages  of  my  education  and  of  my  wealth.  He 
points  out,  too,  the  endlessly  varied  interests  of  life. 
He  admits  that  he  has  loved  Madame  St.  Leger  for 
many  years;  and  he  reproaches  himself  deeply  with  not 
having  spoken  to  me  about  his  affection  for  her  when  he 
stayed  here  in  May,  and  when  I  pressed  him  to  tell  me 
whether  he  was  suffering  from  any  anxiety  in  which  I 
could  be  helpful  to  him. 

"That  is  the  answer  of  the  man  of  society,  the  well- 
bred  man  of  the  world ;  the  man,  moreover,  of  sensibility 
and  nice  feeling.  I  quite  appreciate  the  tone  and  tact  of 
his  letter.  But  I  had  already  received  the  answer  of  the 
man  himself.  It  was  simpler,  so  simple  as  to  need  no 
supplement — 'It  is  no  use.  I  do  not  want  you.  My 
poor  woman,  I  do  not  want  you.  It  is  not  possible  that  I 
should  ever  want  you.  I  am  bitterly  grieved  for  you; 
but  you  waste  your  time.' 

"He  has  never  wanted  me.  I  have  wasted  my  time. — 
That  is  all.  And  assuredly  that  is  enough,  and  more  than 
enough?  I  will  waste  no  more  time,  Adrian.  I  will  go 
where  time,  thought,  love,  and  the  rejection  of  love  are  not. 

"The  rain  has  come  back.  It  drips  and  drips  upon 
the  veranda  roof.  I  have  burned  all  your  letters.  No 
one  has  ever  seen  or  touched  them  save  myself.  This 
volume  of  my  diary  I  leave  to  you.  I  shall  seal  it  up, 
and  direct  it  to  you.  At  least  read  it — I  am  no  longer 
ashamed.  I  want  you  to  know  me  as  I  really  am.  Life 
is  already  over.  I  am  already  dead.  So  I  am  not  afraid. 
I  welcome  the  darkness  of  the  everlasting  night  which  is 
about  to  absorb  me  into  itself. — I  wear  the  white  gown  I 
wore  the  second  time  you  kissed  my  hand. — I  do  not  blame 
you,  Adrian.  It  is  just  as  natural  that  you  should  not  love 
me  as  that  I  should  have  loved  you.    I  understand  that. 

"  And  very  soon  now  all  my  trouble  will  be  over  and 
passed.  Soon  I  shall  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  lover  who 
has  never  failed  man  or  woman  yet — in  the  arms  of 
Death.  Joanna  Smyrthwaite." 

424 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  WHICH  A  STRONG  MAN  ADOPTS  A  VERY  SIMPLE  METHOD 
OF  CLEARING  HIS  OWN  PATH  OF  THORNS 

CHALLONER  stood  turning  up  the  collar  of  his 
mackintosh.  Looking  back  between  the  lines  of 
dark,  wind-agitated  trees,  the  red  mass  of  the  house, 
through  a  dull  whiteness  of  driving  rain,  showed  im- 
posing both  in  height  and  in  extent .  Challoner  measured 
it  with  a  satisfied,  even  triumphant,  eye.  Its  large  size 
suited  his  own  large  proportions  capitally.  This  evening, 
though  early  and  still  light,  all  the  blinds  were  drawn 
down.  This  was  as  it  should  be.  He  favored  the  ob- 
servance of  such  outward  conventional  decencies.  Then, 
as  he  moved  away  with  his  heavy,  lunging  tread,  the  rain 
and  wind  took  him  roughly  on  the  quarter. 

This  rearward  onslaught  caused  him  no  annoyance, 
however,  since  his  thoughts  were  altogether  self-con- 
gratulatory. Circumstance  had  played,  and  was  play- 
ing, into  his  hands  in  the  handsomest  fashion.  Well, 
every  one  gets  his  deserts  in  the  long  run ;  so  he  could 
but  suppose  he  deserved  his  present  good  fortune !  Only 
in  this  case  the  run  had  proved  such  an  unexpectedly 
short  and  easy  one.  For  hadn't  he  arrived,  practically 
arrived,  feeling  every  bit  as  fresh  as  when  he  started  ? — 
Here  a  turn  of  half-superstitious,  half-cynical  piety  took 
him.  The  Lord  helps  those  who  have  the  nous  to  help 
themselves.  He  praised  the  Lord!  Having  offered 
which  small  tribute,  or  bribe,  to  the  Judge  of  all  the  Earth 
who  cannot  do  other  than  right,  he  proceeded  to  check 
off  a  few  of  his  well-earned  blessings. 

425 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

The  announcement  of  his  engagement  to   Margaret 
Smyrthwaite  had  appeared,  about  three  weeks  previous- 
ly, in  the  society  columns  of  local  and  London  papers. 
Stourmouth  buzzed  with  the  news,  to  a  loudness  which 
he  found  both  humorous  and  flattering.     In  private  Chal- 
loner  laughed  a  horse-laugh  more  than  once  at  thus  find- 
ing how  he  had  made  his  fellow-townsmen  "sit  up."     He 
enjoyed  the  joke  of  his  own  social  elevation  and  prospect- 
ive wealth  hugely.      And  Mrs.  Gwynnie  had  been  quite 
good,  thank  the  Powers!     If  the  rest  of  his  acquaintance 
had  been  made  to  "sit  up"  by  the  news,  she — to  quote 
his  own  graceful  manner  of  speech — had  "taken  it  lying 
down."     Really  he  felt  very  kindly  toward  her.     She'd 
given  no  trouble.     But  then  the  world  was  going  a  lot 
better  with  Mrs.  Gwyn  than  she'd  any  right  to  expect. 
Her  rent  and  her  quarterly  allowance  were  paid  with 
absolute  regularity.     Not  every  man  would  have  done 
as  much  for  her  after  the  dance  she'd  led  him !     Beattie 
Stacey  was  safely  married  last  week  to  her  young  R.  M.  S. 
second  officer.     And,  so  Challoner  heard,  mainly  on  the 
strength  of  the  said  young  officer's  excellent  reputation, 
Gwynnie  herself  had  taken  out  a  new  lease  of  social  life 
since  her  installation  in  the  white  house  opposite  the 
Marychurch  Borough  Recreation  Ground.     She'd  been 
cute  enough  to  throw  herself  into  that  department  of 
Anglican  religio-parochial  activity  which  busies   itself 
with  variety  entertainments,  rummage  sales,  concerts, 
"happy  evenings,"  bazaars,  and  such-like  contrivances 
for  providing — under  cover  of  charity — audiences  for 
idle  amateurs  ambitious  of  publicity.     Curates  waxed 
enthusiastic  over  "Mrs.  Spencer's  splendidly  unselfish 
helpfulness"  and  "wonderful  organizing  power." — The 
thought  of  that  poor  little,  earnest,  light-weight,  impe- 
cunious baggage  of  an  Anglo-Indian  widow  in  the  char- 
acter  of  a    church-worker   tickled    her    ex-lover   con- 
sumedly. 

But  now  Challoner  felt  constrained  to  put  a  term  to 
426 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

the  slightly  ribald  mirth  induced  by  this  checking  of 
his  well-deserved  blessings,  and  bestow  himself  within 
the  four  corners  of  an  appropriately  black-edged  manner. 
For,  as  he  turned  out  of  the  gates  at  the  end  of  the 
carriage-drive,  he  caught  sight  of  Col.  Rentoul  Haig's 
unmistakable  figure,  pompous  and  dapper  even  when 
clothed  in  an  "aquasutum"  and  carrying  a  streaming 
umbrella,  walking  briskly  down  The  Avenue.  Making 
a  pretense  of  deep  abstraction,  Challoner  passed  him; 
then,  drawing  up  suddenly,  wheeled  round. 

"You,  Colonel?"  he  said.  "I  beg  your  pardon.  For 
the  minute  I  didn't  recognize  you.  My  thoughts  were 
elsewhere." 

He  looked  on  the  ground,  as  one  who  struggles  with 
manly  pride  against  strong  emotion. 

"  You  may  have  heard  of  the  trouble  we  are  in  at  the 
Tower  House?"  he  added. 

Rentoul  Haig  disapproved  the  "we";  but  then  he 
warmly  and  articulately  disapproved  the  whole  matter 
of  the  Challoner-Smyrthwaite  alliance.  Nevertheless 
he  hungered  for  first-hand  news,  thirsted  for  retailable 
detail;  and  who  could  supply  these  better  than  Chal- 
loner? He  pocketed  disapproval,  and  answered  with 
fussy  alacrity,  peering  upward,  into  the  younger  man's 
curiously  non-committal  countenance,  from  beneath  the 
shelter  of  his  umbrella. 

"  Very  fortunate  to  run  across  you  like  this,  Challoner," 
he  said.  "I  was  coming  to  leave  cards  and  inquire. 
Shocking  news  this,  most  shocking.  I  heard  the  report 
from  Woodford,  at  the  Club,  after  luncheon,  and,  I  give 
you  my  word,  it  quite  upset  me." 

"  I'm  not  surprised, Colonel,"  Challoner  put  in  gloomily. 

"Why,  only  yesterday  morning  I  saw  her  out  driving 
between  twelve  and  one — just  upon  the  half-hour  it 
must  have  been — as  I  was  crossing  The  Square  on  my 
way  to  the  Club.  When  Woodford  told  me,  I  said, 
'God  bless  my  soul,  it's  incredible!'" 

28  427 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Challoner's  lips  parted  with  an  unctuous  smack. 

"  Incredible  or  not,  Colonel,  it  is  only  too  sadly  true. 
In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death,  you  know.  I  don't 
set  up  to  be  a  serious  man,  but  an  event  like  this  does 
bring  the  meaning  of  those  words  home  to  you — makes 
you  think  a  bit,  reminds  you  what  an  uncommonly 
slippery  hold  even  the  healthiest  of  us  has  on  life." 

Watching  the  effect  of  these  lugubrious  moralizings 
upon  his  auditor,  Challoner  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
the  latter's  face  grow  small  and  blue  in  the  shade  of 
the  wet  umbrella. — "Look's  like  a  sick  frog  under  a 
toadstool,"  he  reflected.  "Well,  let  snobby  old  froggy 
turn  blue,  feel  blue — the  bluer  the  better."  It  served 
him  jolly  well  right.  Hadn't  he  said  no  end  of  nasty 
things  about  his,  Challoner's,  coming  marriage?  Then 
he  proceeded  with  the  amiable  operation  commonly 
known  as  "rubbing  it  in." 

"Ah!  yes,"  he  said,  "I  knew  how  you'd  feel  it,  Colonel. 
Without  being  oversentimental,  it  is  a  thing  to  break  up 
one's  sense  of  personal  security.  And  a  relation  of  yours 
too !  Only  nine-and-twenty — a  mere  child  compared  to 
you,  of  course,  Colonel.  It's  always  painful  to  see  the 
younger  generation  go  first.  Yes,  I  knew  how  you'd  feel 
it.  Kind  of  you  to  come  off  at  once  like  this  to  make 
inquiries.  It  will  please  Margaret,  poor,  dear  girl.  She 
sent  for  me  directly  they  made  the  discovery  this  morn- 
ing, and  I've  been  with  her  ever  since,  looking  after  her 
and  putting  things  through.  You  see,  Joanna  always 
kept  the  management  of  the  establishment  in  her  own 
hands,  and  the  whole  household  fell  to  pieces  like  a 
bundle  of  sticks  to-day.  All  the  servants  lost  their 
heads.  Somebody  had  to  step  in  and  lay  hold.  Mar- 
garet is  behaving  beautifully.  This  bearing  up  is  all 
very  well  at  first,  but  I'm  afraid  she's  bound  to  pay 
later.  However,  thank  God!  I've  the  right,  now,  to 
take  care  of  her." 

"Quite  so — no  doubt — yes,  exactly,"  Haig  responded, 
428 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

in  rather  chilly  accents.  "  Of  course.  But  I  have  heard 
nothing  but  the  bare  fact,  Challoner.  Quite  sudden, 
was  it — quite  unexpected?" 

"  Yes,  and  no."  He  spoke  slowly,  as  one  weighing  his 
words. 

"I  sincerely  trust  there  isn't  any  question  of  an 
inquiry?" 

From  his  superior  height  Challoner  looked  down  at 
the  speaker  in  momentary  and  sharp  suspicion.  What 
story  was  current  in  Stourmouth,  he  wondered  ?  Could 
the  servants  have  talked?  Had  the  empty  tabloid 
bottle  and  the  tumbler  with  a  film  of  white  sediment 
clouding  the  inside  of  it,  become  a  matter  of  common 
knowledge?  He  found  Rentoul  Haig's  expression 
reassuring. 

"Certainly  not — quite  uncalled  for,  I  am  thankful  to 
say,"  he  replied  largely.  "No,  no,  Colonel,  nothing 
of  that  sort.  An  inquest  is  a  pretty  sickening  business 
under  ordinary  circumstances ;  but  it  amounts  to  a  posi- 
tive insult,  in  my  opinion,  in  the  case  of  a  refined,  sen- 
sitive gentlewoman." 

Rentoul  Haig  came  near  dancing  with  impatience. 

"True,  true,"  he  murmured. 

"So,  pray  put  that  idea  out  of  your  head,  and  out  of 
everybody  else's  head,  Colonel.  You'll  be  doing  Mar- 
garet a  kindness,  doing  poor  Joanna  a  kindness  too. 
People  are  awfully  unscrupulous  in  the  reports  they 
circulate.  But  then,  of  course,  I  know  we  can  count 
on  your  gentlemanly  feeling  and  good  taste." 

A  moment  more  and  Colonel  Haig  believed  he  should 
burst.  He  was  being  patronized — patronized,  he  the 
bright,  particular  star  of  the  most  elect  circle  of  Stour- 
mouth society,  and  by  Joseph  Challoner! 

"  The  fact  is  she  hasn't  been  in  a  good  state  of  health 
for  some  time.  Margaret  has  spoken  to  me  about  it 
and  a  lot  of  people  have  remarked  upon  it.  Her  pecu- 
liarities seemed  to  grow  upon  her  lately.     And  she  was 

429 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

not  an  easy  person  to  deal  with — in  some  ways  very 
like  our  poor  friend  her  father.  Margaret  hasn't  said 
much  to  me,  but  I  fancy  she's  found  her  sister's  temper 
a  little  trying.  Health,  I  dare  say,  as  much  as  anything. 
Norbiton  has  been  treating  her  for  sleeplessness  and  gen- 
eral debility — nerves,  you  know.  She  always  was  high- 
ly strung.  Yesterday  morning,  they  tell  me,  she  looked 
appallingly  ill  and  complained  of  having  fainted  in  the 
night.  They  had  Norbiton  in,  and  he  sounded  her — was 
not  at  all  satisfied  with  the  heart's  action.  I  am  not 
surprised  at  that.  You  remember  how  peculiar  her  eyes 
were — globular — ' ' 

Challoner  looked  down  with  rich  enjoyment  at  the 
"pop-eyes,"  so  he  gracefully  phrased  it,  staring  eagerly, 
angrily  up  from  beneath  the  streaming  umbrella. 

"Globular,"  he  repeated;  "and  with  that  pale  circle 
round  the  edge  of  the  iris,  which  invariably,  in  my  ex- 
perience, indicates  a  weak  heart.  Norbiton  prescribed  for 
her,  and  told  her  to  keep  quiet.  Margaret,  poor,  dear 
girl,  did  her  best;  but  Joanna  insisted  on  driving  out. 
I  was  dining  there  last  night,  and  she  didn't  come  down. 
They  told  me  Norbiton's  opinion,  but  I  supposed  it  was 
just  a  case  for  care.  And  then,  when  her  maid  went  to 
call  her  this  morning,  she  found  her  stone  cold.  She 
must  have  been  dead  several  hours — died  in  her  sleep." 

And  both  men  stood  silent,  awed  in  spite  of  themselves, 
by  the  thought  of  Joanna  Smyrthwaite  lying  dead. 

"  Shocking  occurrence,  very  shocking  indeed !"  Colonel 
Haig  remarked  presently,  fussily  clearing  his  throat. 
"  You  say  peculiarities  had  grown  upon  poor  Miss  Smyrth- 
waite recently.  One  would  be  glad  to  know  why — to  have 
some  clue  to  the  reason  for  that.  There  were  rumors,  I 
believe,  a  few  months  back  of  an — er — of  an  attachment 
on  her  part,  which — it  is  a  delicate  subject  to  approach — 
was,  in  fact,  rather  misplaced.  And — well — you  know, 
one  cannot  help  putting  two  and  two  together." 

"Oh,  as  to  anything  of  that  sort,"  Challoner  returned 
430 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

somewhat  roughly,  throwing  his  big  body  back  from  the 
hips  and  moving  a  step  aside,  as  though  to  conceal  justifi- 
able annoyance, — "you  really  must  excuse  me,  Colonel. 
Standing  in  the  relation  I  do  to  both  the  Smyrthwaite 
ladies,  it  is  a  subject  I  hardly  care  to  discuss.  I  can't 
help  knowing  a  good  deal,  and  I  can't  help  what  I've 
noticed ;  but  I  don't  feel  at  liberty  to  speak.  Mr.  Savage 
stayed  twice  at  the  Tower  House  this  year,  as  you  are 
aware;  and — people  have  eyes  in  their  heads.  I  don't 
mind  telling  you,  he  and  I  came  to  loggerheads  over  the 
division  of  the  property.  That's  what  first  really  brought 
Margaret  and  me  together.  I  had  to  protect  her  interests, 
or  she  would  have  come  off  a  very  bad  second.  And, 
though  it's  early  days  to  mention  it,  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  in  confidence — the  strictest  confidence,  you  under- 
stand, Colonel — " 

"You  know  by  this  time,  I  hope,  Challoner,  how 
entirely  you  can  trust  me?"  the  other  remonstrated,  at 
once  famished  for  further  information  and  bristling  with 
offended  dignity. 

"To  be  sure  I  do. — Well,  then,  it  may  interest  you  to 
hear  that  Margaret  has  the  old  home  secured  to  her.  I 
am  pleased  on  her  account,  for  she's  fond  of  the  place. 
Personally,  there  are  several  houses  in  Baughurst  Park 
I  prefer.  However,  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  If  she's 
pleased  I'm  pleased,  naturally.  But,  exclusive  of  the 
house  and  its  contents,  she  hardly  benefits  at  all  under 
her  sister's  will." 

In  his  excitement  Rentoul  Haig  lost  control  of  his  um- 
brella, which,  tilting  in  a  gust  of  wind,  discharged  a 
small  cataract  of  water  down  the  back  of  his  neck. 

"Bless  my  soul,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  don't  say  so! 
What  ungodly  weather!  Where  on  earth  does  all  her 
money  go  to?" 

"You  may  well  ask,"  Challoner  replied  grimly.  "In 
the  case  of  her  dying  unmarried  her  share  in  the  mills 
and  the  rest  of  the  Yorkshire  property  is  left  to  Mr. 

43i 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Andrew  Merriman,  the  partner  and  manager  —  a  self- 
made  man,  who  had  the  wit  to  get  round  old  Mr.  Smyrth- 
waite.  He's  feathered  his  own  nest  very  tidily,  it  strikes 
me,  one  way  and  another.  And  the  bulk  of  the  invested 
property — prepare  yourself  for  a  pleasant  surprise, 
Colonel — Joanna  leaves,  on  trust,  to  her  scrapegrace, 
rascally  brother." 

A  flashlight  hope  of  a  solid  legacy  had  momentarily 
illuminated  Rentoul  Haig's  horizon.  But  the  light  of 
hope  was  extinguished  almost  as  soon  as  kindled,  giving 
him  just  time  to  be  mortally  disappointed.  His  face 
fell,  while  Challoner,  watching,  could  barely  repress  his 
glee. 

"But,  but,"  he  bubbled,  "every  one  has  been  assured 
for  years  that  the  good-for-nothing  boy  was  dead!" 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  inhuman,  but  I  can  only  say  that, 
for  the  sake  of  my  future  wife's  peace  of  mind,  I  most  sin- 
cerely and  cordially  trust  he  is  dead — dead  and  done 
with.  Judging  by  what  you  told  me  yourself,  Colonel, 
from  a  child  he  has  been  a  downright  bad  lot,  a  regular 
waster.  You  may  also  be  interested  to  hear  we  owe  this 
precious  bit  of  business  to  Mr.  Adrian  Savage.  He  came 
to  Joanna,  when  he  was  over  last,  with  some  cock-and- 
bull  story  about  young  Smyrthwaite's  turning  up,  half- 
starved,  in  Paris  last  winter.  Worked  upon  her  feelings 
no  end  with  a  whole  lot  of  Frenchified  false  sentiment — 
brother  and  sister,  the  sacredness  of  family,  and  that  sort 
of  fluff-stuff.  I  am  bound  to  say  plainly  I  date  the  break- 
up of  her  health  from  that  moment.  He  spoke  to  me 
about  young  Smyrthwaite,  but,  of  course,  I  refused  to 
touch  it.  Gave  him  a  piece  of  my  mind  which  I  fancy  he 
didn't  quite  relish,  as  he  packed  up  and  took  himself  off, 
on  the  quiet,  next  morning.  As  I  told  him,  if  he  and 
Merriman  wanted  to  dump  the  young  scoundrel  upon  his 
two  unfortunate  sisters  they  mustn't  look  to  me  for  as- 
sistance— the  job,  as  I  told  him,  wasn't  in  Joseph  Chal- 
loner's  line,  not  at  all.     Now,  Colonel,  I  ought  not  to  de- 

43  2 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

tain  you  any  longer.  I'm  pleased  to  have  had  the  chance 
to  set  your  mind  at  ease  on  one  or  two  points.  And 
you'll  do  both  Margaret  and  myself  a  favor  if  you  will 
tell  every  one  it  was  heart,  just  simply  heart — a  thing 
that  might  happen  to  any  one  of  us,  you  or  me,  for  in- 
stance, any  day.  Margaret  will  feel  it  very  kind  and 
thoughtful  of  you  to  call,  like  this  at  once,  to  inquire. 
Now  I  really  must  be  off.  Good-evening  to  you.  Let 
you  know  the  date  of  the  funeral?  Of  course; — good- 
evening." 

And  he  swung  up  The  Avenue,  in  the  shrinking  light, 
under  the  swaying,  dripping  trees,  highly  elate. 

"Choked  old  froggy  off  neatly,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"and  got  my  knife  into  highty-tighty  Cousin  Adrian  too. 
I  wonder  if  he  did  carry  on  with  Joanna.  I'd  give  some- 
thing to  know — dare  say  it'll  come  out  in  time.  Any- 
how, he  wouldn't  touch  her  money;  though  it  would  have 
been  bad  policy  to  acquaint  old  Haig  with  that  little  fact. 
Better  take  the  short-cut  home.  Stiff  from  standing  so 
long  in  the  wet;  but  it's  worth  while,  if  only  for  the 
fun  of  making  old  Haig  feel  so  confoundedly  cheap." 

Supported  by  these  charitable  reflections,  he  turned 
off  the  main  road  into  a  footpath  which,  after  skirting 
the  gardens  of  a  large  villa  facing  on  to  The  Avenue, 
struck  northwestward  across  an  as  yet  unreclaimed 
portion  of  the  Baughurst  Park  Estate.  By  following  this 
route  Challoner  took  the  base  instead  of  the  two  sides  of 
a  triangle,  thus  saving  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  his 
walk  home  to  Heatherleigh.  A  dark  plain  of  high,  strag- 
gling heather,  broken  here  and  there  by  a  thicker  dark- 
ness of  advancing  ranks  of  self-sown  firs,  lay  on  either 
side  the  grayness  of  the  sand  and  flint  strewn  track. 
Even  in  sunshine  the  region  in  question  was  cheerless, 
and,  as  seen  now,  in  the  driving  rain  and  fading  daylight, 
it  bore  a  positively  forbidding  aspect.  But  to  this  Chal- 
loner, having  returned  to  enumeration  of  his  well-de- 
served blessings,  was  sublimely  indifferent. 

433 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

And  among  those  blessings — here,  alone,  free  to  dis- 
regard conventional  black-edged  decencies  and  be  honest 
with  himself — Joanna  Smyrthwaite's  death,  although  an 
ugly  suspicion  of  suicide  did  hang  around  it,  might,  he 
felt,  be  counted.  Making  the  admission,  he  had  the 
grace  to  feel  slightly  ashamed  of  his  own  cynicism.  In 
the  first  shock  of  the  tragedy,  when  Marion  Chase  sent 
for  him  in  the  morning,  he  had  been  genuinely  troubled 
and  overset.  But,  as  the  day  wore  on,  the  advantages 
of  the  melancholy  event  disclosed  themselves  more  and 
more  clearly.  Joanna  Smyrthwaite  never  liked  him, 
considered  him  her  social  inferior,  didn't  mince  matters 
in  expressing  her  objection  to  her  sister's  engagement. 
Ignored  him,  when  she  got  the  chance,  or  snubbed  him. 
Distinctly  she'd  done  her  best  to  make  him  feel  awk- 
ward; and  there  was  bound  to  be  friction  in  the  future 
both  in  their  family  relation  and  in  the  management 
of  the  Smyrthwaite  property.  Joanna  was  uncommonly 
strong.  He,  for  one,  had  never  underrated  the  force  of 
her  character.  He  even  owned  himself  a  trifle  afraid 
of  her,  afraid  of  some  pull — as  he  expressed  it — that 
she  might  have  over  Margaret.  Now  he  would  have  Mar- 
garet to  himself,  exclusively  to  himself — and  Challoner's 
blood  grew  hot,  notwithstanding  the  chill  dreariness  of 
wind  and  wet,  thinking  of  that. 

For  his  feeling  toward  Margaret  Smyrthwaite  had 
come  to  be  the  master  power  of  his  life,  of  all  his  schemes 
of  self-aggrandizement.  After  the  somewhat  coarse  and 
primitive  manner  of  his  kind,  he  was  over  head  and  ears 
in  love  with  her.  He  was  proud  of  her,  almost  sensi- 
tively anxious  to  please  her;  ready,  for  all  his  burly, 
bullying  roughness,  to  play  faithful  dog,  fetch  and  carry 
and  slave  for  her.  No  woman  had  ever  affected  him  or 
excited  his  passions  as  she  did.  In  food  he  relished 
highly  seasoned  dishes  to  apprehend  the  flavor  of  which 
you  do  not  need  to  shut  your  eyes  and  listen.  And 
Margaret  Smyrthwaite's  attractions  were  of  the  highly 

434 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

seasoned  order,  the  effect  of  her  full-fleshed,  slightly 
overdressed  and  overscented  person  presenting  itself 
without  any  baffling  reserve,  frankly  assailing  and  pro- 
voking the  senses.— Oh!  he'd  treat  her  like  a  queen; 
work  for  her;  buy  her  jewels,  motor-cars,  aeroplanes  if 
she  fancied  them;  pet,  amuse,  make  Stourmouth  bow 
down  to,  make  himself  a  great  man,  for  her!— Sir  Joseph 
and  Lady  Challoner— a  loftier  flight  than  that— who 
could  tell?  Maybe  a  peerage.  Lord  and  Lady  Baug- 
hurst — why  not?  After  all,  if  you  play  your  cards 
cleverly  enough  such  apparently  improbable  things  do 
happen,  particularly  in  this  blessed  twentieth  century, 
when  money  is  the  prime  factor. 

And  there  was  money  in  plenty,  would  be  more,  unless 
he  was  uncommonly  out  of  his  reckoning.  At  the  start, 
so  he  calculated,  their  united  incomes — his  own  and 
Margaret's — would  amount  to  getting  on  for  twelve 
thousand.  All  to  the  good,  too,  since  there  was  no 
drain  of  a  large  landed  estate  absorbing  more  than 
half  its  yearly  revenue  in  compulsory  outgoings.  They 
would  be  married  soon,  quite  soon.  Her  sister's  death 
and  her  present  loneliness  supplied  ample  reason  for 
pushing  on  the  wedding.  It  must  be  a  quiet  one,  of 
course,  out  of  respect  for  black-edged  decencies.  But 
he  didn't  object  to  that.  The  thing  was  to  get  her. — 
And  then  he'd  carry  her  away,  right  away,  shaking  her 
free  of  the  dismal,  old-fashioned,  Smyrthwaite  rut 
altogether.  They'd  take  a  three  months'  honeymoon 
and  travel  somewhere,  anywhere;  go  a  yachting  trip, 
say,  up  the  Mediterranean.  Never  since  he  was  a  boy 
at  school  had  he  taken  a  holiday.  It  had  been  grind, 
grind,  scheme,  scheme,  climb,  climb  without  inter- 
mission. Not  but  what  he'd  climbed  to  some  purpose, 
since  he'd  got  high  enough  at  forty  to  pluck  such  a 
luscious  mouthful  as  Margaret  off  the  apple  -  tree 
against  which  he'd  set  up  his  ladder !  Now  he  would 
take  a   holiday,  if  only  to    show  other   men   what   a 

435 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

prize  Joseph  Challoner  had  won  in  the  shape  of  a 
woman. 

Amorous,  uxorious,  his  whole  big  body  tingling  with 
emotion,  he  forged  along  the  path  across  the  darkling 
moorland,  breasting  the  wind-driven  sheets  of  cold 
rain. 

"Hi!  slow  up  there,  you  great,  lumbering,  greasy- 
skinned  elephant,  and  tell  me  where  the  devil  I've  got  to 
in  this  blasted  old  wilderness!"  a  voice  shouted. 

At  the  same  time  he  was  aware  that  a  narrow  strip  of 
the  gray  pathway  in  front  of  him  reared  itself  up  on  end, 
assuming  human  form — a  human  form,  moreover,  oddly 
resembling  that  of  Adrian  Savage. 

The  style  of  the  address  was  scarcely  mollifying,  and 
Challoner  had  all  a  practical  man's  hatred  both  of  being 
taken  by  surprise  and  of  encountering  phenomena  which 
he  could  not  account  for  at  once  in  a  quite  satisfac- 
tory and  obvious  manner.  He  came  straight  to  the 
baffling  apparition,  and  looked  it  steadily,  insolently, 
up  and  down,  the  bully  in  him  stirred  into  rather  dan- 
gerous activity.  The  ridicule  of  his  personal  appear- 
ance wounded  his  vanity.  The  interruption  of  his 
dreams  of  love  and  glory  infuriated  him;  while  the 
fancied  likeness  of  the  speaker  to  Adrian  Savage  shar- 
pened the  edge  of  both  offenses. 

"I  advise  you  to  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head, 
or  you  may  happen  to  find  this  wilderness  an  even  more 
blasted  and  blasting  locality  than  will  at  all  suit  you," 
he  said  threateningly. 

At  close  quarters  the  slouching  figure  was  certainly 
not  that  of  Adrian  Savage,  nor  was  the  weak,  dissolute, 
blue-eyed  face.  Yet,  although  seen  indistinctly  in  the 
waning  light,  the  said  face  struck  Challoner  as  unaccount- 
ably familiar.  What  on  earth,  who  on  earth  was  the 
fellow?  Not  an  ordinary  tramp,  for  his  speech,  though 
thick  with  drink,  and  his  clothes,  though  ill-kept  and 
dirty,  were  those  of  a  man  of  education  and  position. 

43  6 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Challoner  continued  to  scrutinize  him.  And  under  that 
unfriendly  and  menacing  scrutiny  the  young  man's  tone 
changed,  declining  to  petulant  almost  whining  apology 
"  You  needn't  bluster,"  he  said.  " I  meant  no  harm; 
and  you  know  you  did  look  awfully  funny  and  shiny.' 
I  want  to  know  where  I  am.  I  came  across  from  Havre 
to  Barryport  in  an  onion-boat,  because  it  was  cheapest. 
I'm  not  overflush  of  cash.  So  I've  come  to  look  up  some 
of  my  people  who  live  about  here." 

"Charming  surprise  for  them,"  Challoner  said. 
"And  it  blew  like  blazes  all  last  night.  Between  the 
motion  and  the  stench  of  the  onions  I  was  as  sick  as 
Jonah's  whale.  Nothing  left  inside  of  me  except  just 
myself.  One  of  those  Breton  sailor  chaps,  hawking  his 
beastly  vegetables,  came  a  bit  of  the  way  from  Barry- 
port  with  me.  He  told  me  to  cut  across  these  commons 
and  I  should  be  sure  to  come  out  all  right;  but  I  expect 
he  lied  just  to  get  quit  of  me." 

"More  than  possible,"  Challoner  said. 
"I  ought  to  have  stuck  to  the  tram-lines,  but  my 
head's  rather  light.  I  haven't  got  over  the  Jonah  busi- 
ness yet.  I  lost  my  bearings  altogether  somehow, 
through  feeling  so  awfully  slack.  I've  been  sheltering  in 
under  those  mangy  old  fir-trees  for  I  don't  know  how 
long,  hoping  somebody  might  pass.  And  I'm  wet  to  the 
skin,  and  as  cold  as  charity." 

"Very  interesting  indeed,  but  no  earthly  concern  of 
mine.  So  if  you've  got  to  the  end  of  your  tale  I'll  con- 
tinue my  walk.  Good-day,"  Challoner  commented,  pre- 
paring to  resume  his  homeward  journey. 
The  young  man  caught  him  by  the  arm. 
"Say,  but  you  can't  leave  me  alone  in  this  God-for- 
saken hole?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  can,"  Challoner  answered.  "Kindly  take 
your  dirty  paw  off  my  sleeve,  will  you  ?  else  I  may  be 
compelled  to  have  a  word  with  the  local  authorities 
about  a  case  of  assault,  attempted  robbery  with  violence, 

437 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

and  such  sweet  little  games.  However,  it  wouldn't  be 
the  first  time  you've  made  acquaintance  with  the  inside 
of  a  police  cell,  unless  I'm  much  mistaken." 

"  I  don't  mean  any  harm.  I  only  want  you  to  tell  me 
the  way.  I  can't  lie  out  here  in  the  wet  all  night.  It 
would  rot  me  with  chills  and  fever." 

The  wind  had  increased  in  force.  Now  the  tumult  of 
it  was  loud.  It  rushed  through  the  firs,  bending  them 
low,  tearing  off  dry  branches  and  tufted  tassels;  then 
fled  on,  screaming,  across  the  dark  plain  of  heather  like 
some  demented  thing  let  loose.  The  speaker  craned  his 
neck  upward  and  raised  his  voice  to  a  quavering  shout  in 
the  effort  to  make  himself  heard.  His  face  was  close  to 
Challoner's;  and  again  the  latter  was  puzzled  by  some- 
thing unaccountably  familiar  in  the  features  and  general 
effect  of  it.  Whereupon  the  bullying  instinct  gave  place 
to  caution. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  "you  must  behave  like  a  reason- 
able being,  not  like  a  driveling  sot,  if  you  want  me  to 
take  any  trouble  about  you.  Tell  you  your  way,  you 
young  fool,  your  way  where?" 

"To  the  Tower  House,  something  Park — Baughurst 
Park — that's  the  blooming  name  of  it,  where  my  people 
live." 

Challoner  started;  he  could  not  help  it.  Then  he 
waited  till  the  next  gust  of  wind  had  spent  its  fury, 
and,  in  the  lull  which  followed,  spoke  very  slowly. 

"  So  that's  the  blooming  name  of  the  blooming  place 
where  your  people  live,  is  it  ?  And  who  may  your  people 
be,  if  you  please,  and  what  is  your  business  with  them?" 

"  What,  the  deuce,  does  that  matter  to  you  ?"  the  other 
answered,  trying  to  ruffle,  yet  shrinking  away  nervously, 
while  the  wind,  gathering  force  again,  whipped  his  legs 
and  back,  showing  the  lines  of  his  wasted,  large-boned 
frame  through  his  thin,  light-colored  clothing. 

"  As  it  happens,  it  matters  very  much  to  me,"  Challoner 
retorted,  "because  some  very  particular  friends  of  mine 

438 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

live  at  the  Tower  House.  It  may  amuse  you  to  hear 
I  have  just  come  from  there,  and  that  you  very  certainly 
can't  gain  access  to  the  Tower  House  without  my  per- 
mission, and  that  I  very  certainly  shall  not  give  that 
permission .  Young  gentlemen  of  your  particular  kidney 
aren't  required  there.  The  men-servants  would  kick 
you  out,  and  quite  properly.  We  know  how  to  treat 
loafers  and  tippling  impostors  who  try  to  sponge  upon 
gentlewomen  here  in  England. — Now  come  along  with 
me.  I'll  see  you  as  far  as  the  tram-line,  and  pay  your 
fare  to  Barry  port,  and  you  can  go  on  board  your  onion- 
boat  again.  Also  I'll  telephone  through  to  the  central 
police  station  directly  I  get  home  and  give  the  Stour- 
mouth  and  Barryport  police  a  little  description  of  you. 
So  step  out,  if  you  please.     No  malingering." 

As  he  finished  speaking  Challoner  grasped  the  young 
man  solidly  by  the  shoulder,  propelling  him  forward, 
but  the  latter,  slippery  as  an  eel,  wriggled  himself  free. 

"Let  go,  you  great  hulking  beast!"  he  cried.  "I'm 
not  an  impostor.  I'm  William  Smyrthwaite,  and  my 
sister  Joanna  means  to  provide  for  me.  I  know  all  about 
that.  A  chap  who  I  ran  across  three  days  ago  in  Rouen 
told  me.  We  always  were  chummy  in  the  old  days, 
Nannie  and  I.  She'll  tell  you  I'm  speaking  the  truth 
fast  enough,  and  make  you  look  d — d  silly.  She'll 
recognize  and  acknowledge  me,  see  if  she  don't!" 

"  Upon  my  word,  I'm  afraid  she's  not  likely  to  have  an 
opportunity  of  doing  anything  of  the  kind,  poor  lady," 
Challoner  returned;  and  he  laughed  at  his  own  rather 
horrible  joke.  "So  come  along,  Mr.  Who-ever-you-are, 
alias  William  Smyrthwaite,  Esq.  I  begin  to  think  I'd 
better  see  you  safe  on  board  your  precious  onion-boat 
myself,  and  have  you  affectionately  looked  after  till  she 
sails.     It  may  save  both  of  us  trouble." 

"You  beast,  you  cursed,  great,  shiny,  black  devil!" 
Bibby  shouted.  And  he  clawed  and  struck  at  his  tor- 
mentor passionately. 

439 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

The  first  touch  of  those  striking,  clawing  hands  let  the 
underlying  wild  animal  loose  in  Challoner.  A  primitive 
lust  of  fight  took  him,  along  with  a  savage  joy  in  the  act 
of  putting  forth  his  own  immense  physical  strength. 
Still,  at  first,  his  temper  remained  fairly  under  control, 
and  he  played  with  his  adversary,  feinted  and  parried. 
But  the  wretched  boy  did  not  fight  fair.  He  indulged  in 
sneaking,  tricky  dodges  learned  amid  the  moral  and  social 
filth  of  the  Paris  under-world  and  in  South  American 
gambling  hells  and  doss-houses.  Soon  Challoner  lost  his 
temper,  saw  his  chance,  took  it;  delivered  one  blow, 
straight  from  the  shoulder,  which,  landing  on  Bibby's 
temple,  dropped  him  like  so  much  lead  on  the  rain- 
washed  flints  of  the  crown  of  the  pathway.  Then  he 
stood  breathing  heavily,  his  eyes  bloodshot,  the  veins 
standing  out  like  cords  on  his  forehead,  the  intoxication 
of  battle  at  once  stupefying  and  maddening  him. 

Presently  Bibby's  limbs  twitched;  and,  as  though 
moved  by  a  spring,  he  sat  bolt  upright,  his  elbows  set 
back,  his  hands,  the  thick-jointed  fingers  wide  apart, 
raised  to  the  level  of  his  shoulders. 

"He's  done  me  in,  the  clumsy,  murderous  brute!" 
he  panted.  Then  childishly  whimpering — "Nannie,"  he 
wailed,  "poor  old  Nannie,  so  you're  dead  too.  Golly, 
what  a  sell!     Never  mind.     I'm  just  coming." 

He  lurched  and  fell  sideways,  rolling  over  face  down- 
ward into  a  long,  sandy  puddle  edging  the  pathway. 

Five  minutes,  nearly  ten  minutes  passed,  while  Chal- 
loner remained  standing  stock-still  in  the  volleying  wind 
and  blinding  rain  and  forlorn  fading  light  of  the  moor- 
land. At  last  he  shook  himself,  went  forward  and  knelt 
beside  the  motionless  Thing  lying  close  against  the 
black  ragged  fringe  of  heath,  upon  its  stomach,  in  the 
sandy  wetness.  For  some  time  he  couldn't  bring  him- 
self to  touch  it.  Then  putting  strong  constraint  upon 
himself,  he  turned  it  over  and  bent  low,  staring  at  it. 
It  reminded  him  of  the  big,  white,  yellow-headed  mag- 

440 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

gots  he  used  to  pick  out  of  the  decaying  wood  of  the 
old  summer-house  in  the  little  garden  at  home  as  a  boy, 
and  use  for  bait  when  he  went  fishing  in  the  river  at 
Mary  church.  Yes — it  was  queerly  like  those  maggots. 
But  somehow  it  wore  the  clothes  of  Adrian  Savage. 
And  its  poor  face  was  that  of  Joanna  Smyrthwaite  as 
he  had  seen  her  this  morning  in  the  agitated  silence  of 
her  room,  stretched  cold  and  lifeless  beneath  the  fine 
lace  coverlet  of  her  satin  wood  bed.  Only  her  eyes  were 
shut,  and  this  Thing's  eyes  were  wide,  wide  open.  Now 
its  loose  lips  parted.  Its  mouth  opened  too,  while  a 
dark  thread  trickled  slowly  down  its  chin  into  the 
hollow  of  its  throat  inside  its  dirty,  crumpled  collar. 

Challoner  tumbled  up  hastily  and  waited,  breathing 
hard  and  brushing  the  rain  and  sweat  off  his  face  with 
the  back  of  his  hand.  Gradually  his  mind  began  to 
work  clearly.  His  sense  of  ordinary  every-day  hap- 
penings, their  correlation  and  natural  consequences,  of 
his  own  identity,  his  business,  his  hopes  of  worldly  ad- 
vancement, wealth  and  titles,  came  back  to  him.  He 
understood  that  he  must  decide,  act,  cover  up  what  he 
had  done,  get  rid  of  this  accusing,  motionless  Thing  lying 
open-eyed,  open-mouthed  in  the  pathway. 

He  knelt  down  again,  put  his  arms  round  the  limp 
body,  with  a  mighty  lift  and  heave  flung  it  sack-like 
across  his  shoulder,  staggered  on  to  his  feet,  and,  head- 
ing south  westward  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale,  laboring  under 
the  weight  of  that  which  he  carried,  plowed  his  way 
doggedly  across  the  desolate  outstretch  of  rough, 
resilient  heather,  down  into  the  heart  of  the  straining, 
bellowing,  storm-swept  woodland. 

It  was  late,  long  past  his  usual  dinner-hour,  when 
Challoner  reached  Heatherleigh.  To  his  own  surprise, 
he  accounted  for  himself  to  his  servant  as  the  man 
helped  him  off  with  his  mackintosh.  He'd  been  de- 
tained, had  got  a  chill,  he  believed;  didn't  know  that 
he  wanted  any  dinner.     Yes— let  them  send  whatever 

441 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

they'd  got  ready — hot,  and  the  plainer  the  better. 
He'd  have  it  when  he  came  down — in  ten  minutes.  He 
must  change  first,  he  was  so  confoundedly  wet. 

For  the  sake  of  appearances  he  made  an  effort  to  eat ; 
but  the  sight  and  smell  of  food  turned  his  stomach. 
Still  complaining  of  chill,  he  left  the  table  and  went  into 
the  smoking-room.  Though  an  abstemious  man,  both 
from  habit  and  policy,  he  mixed  himself  a  remarkably 
stiff  brandy  and  soda,  set  it  down  on  the  large  writing- 
table — loaded  with  bundles  of  folded  papers,  docu- 
ments engrossed  on  vellum  and  tied  with  pink  tape — 
and  forgot  to  drink  it.  Went  round  the  room  turning 
all  the  incandescent  gas-lamps  full  on.  The  chocolate- 
colored  imitation  leather  paper  with  which  the  walls 
were  hung  made  the  room  dark;  and  Challoner  felt  a 
strong  aversion  to  the  dark.  He  wanted  to  see  every 
object  quite  plainly  and  in  its  entirety.  He  took  a 
cigar  from  the  cedar-lined  silver  box  Margaret  Smyrth- 
waite  had  given  him,  standing  on  the  revolving  book- 
case— looked  at  it  and  put  it  back.  Somehow  he  couldn't 
smoke.  Sank  down  in  an  arm-chair  and  sat  glowering, 
like  some  sullen,  savage,  trapped  animal,  into  the  empty 
grate. 

More  than  once,  fatigue  overcoming  him,  he  dozed, 
only  to  wake,  with  a  start,  crying  out  loud: 

"It  wasn't  my  fault.  I  didn't  begin  it.  He  hit  me 
first." 

Then,  clearer  understanding  returning,  he  con- 
tinued : 

"I  struck  him  in  self-defense — before  God — as  I  hope 
to  be  saved,  I  did.  At  most  they  could  bring  it  in  man- 
slaughter. I  did  it  for  Margaret's  sake,  to  save  her 
from  being  exploited  and  sponged  on  by  the  drunken 
young  rotter.  Ah!  my  God — but  if  it  was  true,  if,  as 
he  claimed  to  be,  he  was  her  brother,  how  can  I  go  to 
her  with  his  blood  on  my  hands?  Margaret — I'm  in 
hell.     Forgive  me — don't  believe  it!     Never  know — my 

442 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

own  poor,  splendid  darling — God,  how  I  love  her — 
Margaret — Margaret — never  know — I  can't,  I  can't  lose 
you." 

And  Challoner  broke  down,  sobs  shaking  his  great, 
amorous  body  and  tearing  his  bull  throat. 

Toward  morning  at  the  turn  of  the  tide  the  gale  abated 
and  the  rain  ceased.  When  daylight  came,  but  not  until 
then,  Challoner  went  up-stairs  to  his  bedroom,  the  win- 
dows of  which  faced  east.  He  drew  back  the  curtains, 
pulled  up  the  wooden-slatted  Venetian  blinds  and  watched 
the  brightness  widen  outward  and  upward  behind  the 
ragged  crests  of  the  stone  pines.  As  a  rule  he  had  not 
time  or  care  to  waste  on  the  beauties  of  nature,  but  he 
found  vague,  inarticulate  solace  in  the  gaudy  colors 
of  this  wild  sunrise.  He  was  calmer  now,  and  the 
strong  daylight  helped  to  drive  out  exaggerations  of 
sentiment  and  fearful  fancies.  In  short,  his  impregnable 
health  and  physical  courage,  his  convenient  coarseness 
of  moral  fiber  and  indomitable  tenacity  of  purpose,  be- 
gan to  assert  themselves.  He  began  to  argue  and  not 
unably  to  plead  his  own  cause  to  himself. 

For,  look  at  the  ghastly  episode  what  way  you 
pleased,  how  could  he  be  blamed  for  it?  The  whole 
thing  was  accident,  accident  pure  and  simple,  which  he 
could  not  foresee,  and  equally  could  not  prevent.  It 
had  been  sprung  on  him  out  of  a  clear  sky.  He  was 
rushed,  not  given  an  instant's  breathing  space  for  con- 
sideration. And  that  was  manifestly  unfair.  Any  man 
might  lose  his  head  and  be  betrayed  into  violence  by 
such  vile  provocation. 

His  spirits  revived. 

And,  when  all  came  to  all,  there  was  not  a  tittle  of 
evidence  against  him!  After  parting  with  Haig  he  had 
not  met  a  soul.  He  could  swear  no  one  had  seen  him 
turn  out  of  The  Avenue  into  the  footpath.  The  rain 
would  have  obliterated  all  traces  of  the  struggle  by  this 
time,  and  wet  heather,  thank  goodness,  doesn't  show 

29  443 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

tracks.  Though  why  he  should  trouble  about  such 
details  he  didn't  know.  It  was  blitheringly  silly,  for, 
who  the  devil  would  be  on  the  lookout  for  tracks? 
A  thousand  to  one  the  body  would  not  be  found  until 
the  estate  foresters  cut  the  bracken  in  November;  and 
by  then — 

Sweat  broke  out  on  Challoner's  forehead,  and  he  was 
not  sorry  the  sun  stood  high  behind  the  pines,  throw- 
ing slanting  shafts  of  light  between  their  dark  stems 
across  the  rain-swamped  garden,  where  the  blackbirds 
and  thrushes  patroled,  worm-hunting,  on  the  turf. 

By  that  time,  whatever  was  left  would  be  in  no  condi- 
tion to  tell  tales.  "  Painful  discovery  in  the  Baughurst 
Park  Woods" — he  could  see  the  headlines  in  the  local 
papers — "Mysterious  death" — "No  clue  to  the  identity 
of  the  remains" — None,  thank  the  Lord,  none,  none! 
But  for  a  couple  of  francs  and  a  few  English  coppers  the 
boy's  pockets  were  empty.  Challoner,  praise  to  God! 
had  mustered  sufficient  spunk  to  ascertain  that. 

All  the  same — and  here  callousness  failed  him  a  lit- 
tle— his  and  Margaret's  honeymoon  should  be  a  long 
one,  long  enough  to  insure  their  being  far  away  from 
Stourmouth  when  the  foresters  cut  the  bracken  in  Novem- 
ber. Distance,  travel,  new  scenes  and  new  interests, 
are  said  to  draw  the  sting  of  remembrance.  And  it  was 
best,  immeasurably  best,  not  only  for  himself,  but  in- 
directly for  Margaret  also,  that  remembrance  should  be 
blunted,  that  he  should — if  he  only  could — forget. 

For,  after  all — his  spirits  in  the  honest  sunshine  re- 
viving yet  further — what  proof  had  he  the  miserable 
drink  and  vice  corrupted  wastrel  had  spoken  the  truth  ? 
Wasn't  it  much  more  probable  Haig's  story  was  the 
right  one,  and  that  this  was  some  low,  blackmailing 
scoundrel  trading  upon  scraps  of  hearsay  information 
he'd  happened  to  pick  up  ?  A  lying,  misbegotten  whelp, 
in  short,  of  whom  society  at  large  was  extremely  well 
rid  —  really,  to  expend  sentiment  upon  the  summary 

444 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

removal  of  such  refuse  came  near  being  maudlin.  As  to 
any  fancied  resemblance  he  bore  to  Joanna  Smyrth- 
waite,  one  couldn't  attach  any  serious  importance  to 
that.  In  the  ghostly  twilight  it  was  impossible  to  see 
distinctly.  And,  after  the  uncommonly  nasty  upset  of 
the  morning  and  the  bullying  he'd  been  obliged  to 
give  that  old  grannie,  Norbiton,  before  the  latter  would 
consent  to  ignore  the  empty  tabloid  bottle,  and  certify 
the  cause  of  death  simply  as  syncope,  it  was  hardly  sur- 
prising if  he'd  got  poor  Joanna's  personal  appearance  a 
little  upon  his  brain.  No— it  is  an  awful  misfortune,  no 
doubt,  to  be,  however  accidentally,  the  means  of  taking 
a  fellow-creature's  life;  but,  looking  at  the  whole  occur- 
rence cooly,  he — Challoner — came  to  the  comforting 
conclusion  that  he  was  hardly  more  to  blame,  more  re- 
sponsible, than  he  would  be  if  some  reckless  fool  had 
blundered  across  the  road  under  the  nose  of  his  motor 
and  got  run  down. 

Whereupon,  the  sun  having  now  cleared  the  crests  of 
the  pines  and  it  being  imperative  not  to  give  the  servants 
any  handle  for  gossip,  Challoner  undressed  and  went  to 
bed. 

He  succeeded  in  advancing  the  date  of  the  wedding; 
but  during  the  five  weeks  which  elapsed  before  it  took 
place  his  moods  caused  some  perplexity  and  no  small 
discomfort  to  his  poorer  clients,  junior  partners,  and 
clerks.  At  moments  he  indulged  in  boisterous  mirth; 
but  for  the  most  part  was  abominably  bad-tempered, 
irritable,  and  morose. 

Colonel  Haig,  however,  noted  unexpected  signs  of 
grace  in  him,  concerning  which  he  spoke  to  Mr.  Wood- 
ford one  day  at  the  Club. 

" Challoner's  coming  more  into  line,"  he  said;  "he  is 
less  noisy  and  self-assertive — very  much  less  so.  A  good 
deal  of  the  improvement  in  his  manner  is  due  to  me,  I 
flatter  myself.  I  have  been  at  the  trouble  of  giving  him 
some  very  strong  hints.     If  you  propose  to  associate 

445 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

with  gentlemen  you  must  learn  to  behave  like  a  gentle- 
man. His  election  to  the  Club  vexed  me  at  the  time. 
Too  much  country-attorney  sharp  practice  in  the  meth- 
ods he  employed,  I  thought.  So  I  am  relieved,  greatly 
relieved,  he  has  taken  my  friendly  admonitions  to  heart. 
It  would  have  annoyed  me  extremely  if  his  membership 
had  lowered  the  social  tone  of  the  Club.  Too,  it's  pleas- 
anter  for  me  personally,  as  I  am  bound,  I  suppose,  to  see 
a  good  deal  of  him  in  the  future,  on  my  cousin,  Mar- 
garet Smyrthwaite's,  account." 

When  alone  with  his  fiancee  during  this  period  of  wait- 
ing Challoner's  attitude  alternated  between  anxious, 
almost  servile,  humility  and  extravagant  making  of  love. 
Margaret,  however,  being  a  young  woman  of  limited 
imagination,  put  down  both  humility  and  "demonstra- 
tions" to  the  potent  effect  of  her  own  charms,  thus 
remaining  altogether  sensible,  self-complacent,  outward- 
ly composed,  inwardly  excited,  and,  in  fine,  very  well 
content.  While  unknown  to  her,  unknown,  indeed,  to 
all  save  the  man  who  so  slavishly  obeyed  and  fiercely 
caressed  her,  the  unsightly  Thing,  which  had  once  been 
her  playmate  and  brother,  lay  out,  below  the  ever- 
talking  trees,  among  the  heath,  and  sedge-grass,  and 
bracken,  the  tragedy  and  unspeakable  disgrace  of  its 
decomposition  not  hidden  by  so  much  as  a  pauper's 
deal  coffin-lid. 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHEREIN     ADRIAN     SAVAGE     SUCCEEDS      IN     AWAKENING 
LA    BELLE    AU    BOIS    DORMANT 

IN  consequence  of  the  bad  weather  every  one  re- 
turned to  Paris  early  that  autumn.  Anastasia 
Beauchamp's  first  reception — the  fourth  Thursday  in 
September — proved  a  crowded  and  animated  function. 
Each  guest  expressed  rapture  at  meeting  every  other 
guest,  and  at  being  back,  yes,  once  again  veritably 
established  in  our  dear,  good,  brave,  inexhaustibly 
interesting,  intelligent  and  entertaining  Paris!  How 
they — the  speakers — ever  mustered  sufficient  fortitude 
to  go  away,  still  more  to  stay  away,  they  could  really 
now  form  no  conception.  But  it  was  finished,  thank 
Heaven!  the  mortally  tedious  exile;  and  they  were 
restored  to  the  humanities,  the  arts,  the  sciences,  in 
short,  to  civilization,  of  which  last  dear  Mademoiselle 
Beauchamp's  hospitality  represented  so  integral  and 
so  wholly  charming  a  part.  This  and  much  more  to  this 
effect.  The  French  mind  and  French  diction  rarely 
fumble;  but  arrive,  with  graceful  adroitness,  squarely 
on  the  spot.  Lightness  of  touch  and  finish  of  phrase 
effectually  safeguarded  these  raptures  against  any 
suggestion  of  insincerity  or  absurdity.  They  were 
diverting,  captivating,  as  were  the  retailers  of  them. 
And  Anastasia  listened,  retorted,  sympathized,  capped  a 
climax  with  further  witty  extravagance,  heartily  pleased 
and  amused. 

Nevertheless,  to  her,  this  yearly  rentree  was  not  with- 
out an  element  of  pathos.     In  the  matter  of  reminiscence 

447 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

and  retrospect  Miss  Beauchamp  was  the  least  self-indul- 
gent of  women;  her  tendency  to  depress  her  juniors 
by  exaltation  of  the  past  at  expense  of  the  present  being 
of  the  smallest.  To  hours  of  solitary  communing  in  her 
hidden  garden  she  restricted  all  that.  Still  this  joyous 
homing,  when  the  members  of  her  acquaintance  taking 
up  their  residence  once  again  in  Paris  blossomed  into 
fullness  of  intellectual  and  social  activity,  left  her  a  little 
wistful,  a  little  sad.  Recognition  of  the  perpetual  shift- 
ing of  the  human  scene,  of  the  instability  of  human 
purpose,  oppressed  her.  How  few  of  those  who  greeted 
her  to-day  with  such  affectionate  empressement  were 
precisely  the  same  in  thought,  circumstance  or  character 
as  when  they  bade  her  farewell  at  the  end  of  May !  She 
could  not  but  note  changes.  Those  changes  might  be 
slight,  infinitesimal,  but  they  existed.  Not  only  do 
things,  as  a  whole,  march  on;  but  the  individual  marches 
on  also — marches  on,  too  often,  out  completeness  of 
sympathy,  completeness  of  comprehension,  or,  through 
the  ceaslessly  centrifugal,  scattering  action  of  the  social 
machine,  marches  on  actually  out  of  hearing  and  out  of 
sight !  And  this  thinning  of  the  ranks,  these  changes  in 
those  who  remained,  did  cause  her  sorrow.  She  could 
not  bring  herself  to  acquiesce  in  and  accept  them  with 
entire  philosophy. 

Arrayed  in  a  dress  of  clove  carnation  satin  veiled  with 
black  ninon  de  sole,  Miss  Beauchamp  stood  near  the  door 
opening  from  the  first  of  the  suite  of  reception-rooms — 
in  which  tea  had  been  served — on  to  the  entrance  hall. 
She  had  taken  up  her  position  there  when  bidding  her 
guests  adieu.  In  the  second  room  two  persons  were 
talking,  Lewis  Byewater's  slow,  detached,  slightly  nasal 
accents  making  themselves  clearly  audible. 

"Lenty  Stacpole  feels  Madame  Vernois  is  just  the 
loveliest  mature  French  feminine  type  he  has  yet  en- 
countered. He  would  be  gratified  to  work  up  those 
thumbnail  sketches  of  her  he  made  at  Ste.  Marie  into 

448 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

a  finished  portrait  for  exhibition  with  his  other  work  in 
New  York  this  winter — " 

With  an  unconscious,  but  very  expressive,  little  gesture 
of  reprobation  Anastasia  moved  across  to  the  embrasure 
of  the  near  window,  pleasant  from  the  fresh,  pungent 
scent  of  a  bank  of  white  and  lemon-colored  chrysan- 
themums. She  looked  up  into  the  limpid  clarity  of  the 
twilight  sky  seen  above  the  house-roofs  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  quiet  street. 

.  .  .  Yes,  the  perpetual  shifting  of  the  human  scene, 
the  instability  of  human  purpose.  And,  as  concrete  ex- 
ample of  all  that,  a  portrait  of  gentle,  shrinking,  timid, 
pre-eminently  old-world  Madame  Vernois  on  exhibition 
in  New  York !  The  shouting  incongruity  of  the  proposi- 
tion! Would  her  daughter,  la  belle  Gabrielle,  entertain 
it  ?  And  there,  as  Anastasia  confessed  to  herself,  she 
ran  up  against  the  provoking  cause  of  her  quarrel  with 
existing  conditions  and  tendencies.  For,  of  the  two 
living  persons  whom  she  had  recently  come  to  hold  dear- 
est, wasn't  the  one  changed  and  the  other  absent  ? 

Since  that  pleasant  afternoon  at  Ste.  Marie  she  had 
neither  sight  nor  word  of  Adrian  Savage.  The  young 
man  appeared  to  have  incontinently  vanished.  She 
rang  up  his  office  in  the  rue  Druot.  The  good  Konski 
replied  over  the  telephone,  "Monsieur  was,  alas!  encore 
en  voyage."  She  rang  up  his  home  address  in  the  rue  de 
V University,  only  to  receive  the  same  response;  supple- 
mented by  the  information  that  Adrian  had  not  notified 
the  date  of  his  return,  nor  left  orders  as  to  the  forwarding 
of  his  letters.  What  did  this  mean?  She  became 
anxious. 

"Lenty  has  worried  quite  a  wearing  amount,"  Bye- 
water  was  saying,  "whether  it  would  be  suitable  he 
should  ask  you  to  let  him  work  up  a  portrait.  I  tell  you, 
Madame  St.  Leger,  Lenty's  silver-point  is  just  a  dream. 
Do  not  go  thinking  it  is  because  I  am  his  friend  I  judge 
it  so.     Mr.  Dax  positively  enthused  when  he  saw  some 

449 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

samples  last  fall ;  and  Lenty  has  broken  his  own  record 
since  then — " 

Anastasia,  still  consulting  the  calm  evening  sky, 
began  to  play  a  quite  other  than  calm  little  fantasia 
with  the  fingers  of  one  hand  upon  the  window-pane. 
For  why,  in  the  name  of  diplomacy,  of  logic,  of  Eros 
himself,  had  Adrian  Savage  elected  to  vanish  at  this 
moment  of  all  conceivable  moments?  The  goal  of  his 
ambitions  was  in  sight — hadn't  she  told  him  as  much  at 
Ste.  Marie  ?  Eros  awaiting,  as  she  believed,  to  crown  him 
victor  in  the  long,  faithful  fight.  And  then  that  he,  the 
dear,  exasperating  young  idiot,  should  gallop  off  thus, 
the  Lord  only  knew  whither,  instead  of  claiming  the 
enchanting  fruit  of  his  victory!  Really,  it  was  too 
wildly  irritating.  For  la  belle  Gabrielle  wasn't  pleased — 
not  a  bit  of  it.  She  resented  his  absence  at  this  particu- 
lar juncture,  as  any  woman  of  spirit  not  unreasonably 
must.  Only  too  probably  she  would  make  him  pay  for 
his  apparent  slight  of  her.  And  to  what  extent  would 
she  make  him  pay  ?  Faster  and  faster  grew  the  time  of 
the  fantasia  upon  the  window-pane,  for  this  question 
greatly  disturbed  Anastasia. 

For  if  Adrian  must  be  cited  as  an  example  of  the 
absent,  la  belle  Gabrielle  must  be  cited  as  among  the 
changed.  Miss  Beauchamp,  who  watched  her  with 
affectionate  solicitude,  perceived  something  was  a  little 
bit  wrong  with  her.  She  was  not  quite  contented,  not 
quite  happ}'.  Her  manner  had  lost  its  delightful  repose, 
her  beauty,  though  great,  its  high  serenity.  Her  wit 
had  a  sharp  edge  to  it.  She  avoided  occasions  of  inti- 
macy. To-day  she  had  helped  Anastasia  receive;  and 
the  latter  remarked  that,  during  the  whole  course  of  the 
afternoon,  men  had  gathered  about  her  and  that  she 
flirted — gracefully — yet  undeniably — with  each  and  all 
in  turn.  Since  her  return  to  Paris  she  had  discarded 
the  last  outward  signs  of  mourning.  The  smoke-gray 
walking-suit  she  wore  to-day  was  lavishly  embroidered 

45° 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

in  faint  pastel  shades  of  mauve,  turquoise,  and  shell- 
pink,  the  pattern  outlined  here  and  there  in  silver  thread, 
which  glinted  slightly  as  she  moved.  The  same  delicate 
tones  tipped  the  panache  of  smoke-gray  ostrich  plumes 
set  at  the  side  of  her  large  black  hat.  In  this  donning  of 
charming  colors  Anastasia  read  the  signing  of  some 
private  declaration  of  independence,  some  assertion, 
not  only  of  her  youth  and  youth's  acknowledged  privilege 
of  joyous  costume,  but  of  intention  to  make  capital  out 
of  the  admiration  her  youth  and  beauty  excited  after 
the  manner  of  other  fair  mondaines. 

Clearly  Madame  St.  Leger  had  arrived  at  a  definite 
and  momentous  parting  of  the  ways.  Her  mourning, 
all  which  it  implied  and  which  went  along  with  it,  was  a 
thing  of  the  past.  Her  nature  was  too  rich — let  it  be 
added,  too  normal  and  wholesome — for  the  senses  not  to 
play  their  part  in  the  shaping  of  her  destiny.  She  had 
coquetted  with  Feminism,  it  is  true;  but  such  appeals 
and  opportunities  as  Feminism  has  to  offer  the  senses  are 
not  of  an  order  wholesome  natures  can  accept.  To 
Gabrielle  those  appeals  and  opportunities  were,  briefly, 
loathsome;  while,  in  her  existing  attitude,  an  exclu- 
sively intellectual  fanaticism — such  as  alone  can  render 
advanced  Feminism  morally  innocuous — no  longer  could 
control  or  satisfy  her.  Against  it  her  ironic  and  critical 
humor  rebelled,  making  sport  of  it.  It  followed,  there- 
fore, as  Anastasia  saw,  that  la  belle  Gabrielle  would  in- 
evitably seek  satisfaction,  scope  for  her  young  energies, 
for  her  unimpaired  joy  of  living,  elsewhere.  And  this 
signaled  possible  danger.  For,  just  now,  being  piqued, 
as  Anastasia  believed,  and  pushed  by  wounded  pride,  she 
might  commit  a  folly.  She  might  marry  the  wrong  man, 
marry  for  position  merely,  or  for  money.  Plenty  of 
aspirants,  judging  by  this  afternoon,  needed  but  little 
encouragement  to  declare  themselves.  She  had  borne 
the  trials  of  one  loveless  marriage  bravely,  without 
faintest  breath  of  scandal  or  hint  of  disaster.    Through- 

45i 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

out  she  had  been  admirable,  both  in  taste  and  in  con- 
duct. But  what  about  a  second  loveless  marriage, 
made  now  in  the  full  bloom  of  her  womanhood  ? 

Miss  Beauchamp's  fingers  positively  drummed  upon 
the  window.  For  she  had  come  to  love  them  both  so 
closely,  love  them  foolishly,  even  weakly,  much — per- 
haps— this  very  attractive  young  couple,  of  whom  the 
one,  just  now,  was  absent,  the  other  changed!  Beyond 
measure  would  it  grieve  her  if  the  consummation  of  their 
romance  should  be  frustrated  or  should  come  about 
other  than  quite  honest  and  noble  lines.  Why,  oh !  why, 
in  Heaven's  name,  did  Adrian  Savage  absent  himself? 
Why,  at  this  eminently  psychologic  moment,  was  he 
not  here?     Anastasia  could  have  wept. 

Then,  becoming  aware  of  footsteps,  and  some  presence 
entering  from  the  hall  behind  her,  she  turned  round 
hastily  to  find  herself  confronted  by  Adrian  himself. 

"Enfin!"  she  cried,  enthusiastically.  "What  an  in- 
expressible relief  to  see  you,  my  dear  Savage!  You 
discover  me  in  the  very  act  of  exhaling  my  doubtfully 
pious  soul  in  prayers  for  your  speedy  return.  You  are 
late,  in  some  respects  perhaps  dangerously  late;  but 
'better  late  than  never' — immeasurably  better  in  this 
connection.  Only,  pardon  me,  where  on  earth  have  you 
been?" 

The  young  man  held  her  hand  affectionately. 

" In  a  land  which  possesses  no  frontiers,  alas!"  he  said; 
"a  land  which  bears  no  relation  to  geography." 

"Hum!  Hum!"  Anastasia  responded,  just  a  trifle 
impatiently,  shaking  her  head.  "And  in  addition  to 
its  other  peculiarities  is  this  famous  country  devoid  of  a 
postal  system,  may  I  ask?" 

"Practically,  yes,"  Adrian  answered.  "Unless  one  is 
prepared  to  make  oneself  a  really  unpardonable  bore. 
Some  people  call  it  the  Land  of  Regrets,  dear  friend, 
others  call  it  Purgatory.  The  two  names  are  synony- 
mous for  most  of  us,  I  imagine.     I  have  spent  several 

452 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

weeks  there,  and  the  atmosphere  of  the  accursed  place 
still  so  clings  to  me  that,  although  I  needed  immensely 
to  see  you,  I  shrank  from  coming  here  to-day  until,  as  I 
supposed,  all  your  other  guests  would  have  gone." 

Then  Anastasia,  looking  at  him,  perceived  that  this 
delightful  young  man — her  great  fondness  for  whom  she 
did  not  attempt  to  disguise  or  deny — must  also  be  added 
to  the  number  of  the  homing  Parisians  who  had  suffered 
change  since  she  saw  them  last. 

To  begin  with,  he  was  in  mourning  of  the  correct 
French  order,  which,  in  man's  attire  only  in  a  degree  less 
than  in  woman's,  prescribes  uncompromising  severity  of 
black.  But  the  change  in  him,  as  she  quickly  appre- 
hended, went  deeper  than  such  merely  outward  acknowl- 
edgment of  mournful  occurrence.  Some  profound  note 
had  been  struck  since  she  saw  him  at  Ste.  Marie  of  the 
gleaming  sands  and  alluring  horizons,  revealing  tremen- 
dous and  vital  issues  to  him;  and,  in  view  of  those  same 
issues,  revealing  him  to  himself.  From  the  effect  of  this 
revelation  his  whole  being  was  still  vibrant.  Anastasia's 
heart  went  out  to  him  in  large  and  generous  sympathy; 
but  she  abstained  from  question  or  comment.  The 
matter,  whatever  it  might  be,  was  grave,  not  to  be  taken 
lightly  or  played  with.  If  he  intended  to  give  her  his 
confidence,  he  would  find  an  opportunity  for  doing  so 
himself.  Men,  as  she  reflected,  in  their  dealings  with 
women  are  made  that  way.  Express  no  desire  to  learn 
what  troubles  them,  and  they  hasten  to  tell  you.  Show, 
however  discreetly,  your  anxiety  to  hear,  and  they  roll 
like  hedgehogs,  prickles  outward,  at  once!  So  she 
merely  said,  smiling  at  him: 

"lam  afraid  you  should  have  waited  even  longer,  my 
dear  Savage,  if  your  object  was  to  avoid  all  my  guests. 
Two,  in  any  case,  still  linger.  Listen— we  cannot  hope 
for  solitude  a  deux  just  yet." 

For  once  more  Bye  water's  slow,  penetrating  accents 
made  themselves  audible. 

453 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"If  you  feel  not  to  be  able  to  entertain  Lenty  Stac- 
pole's  proposal,  Madame  St.  Leger,  I  would  not  have 
you  hesitate  to  tell  me.  I  believe  I  catch  on  to  your 
objection,  though  in  America  our  ladies  do  not  have  such 
strong  prejudices  against  publicity.  I  will  explain  to 
Lenty  the  way  you  feel.  I  would  not  wish  to  put  you  to 
any  worry  of  refusing  his  proposal  yourself." 

"Eh!  Par  exemple!  And  pray  what  next?"  Adrian 
said,  under  his  breath,  with  raised  eyebrows,  looking  his 
hostess  inquiringly  in  the  face. 

"Ste.  Marie  offered  only  too  many  fatally  magical 
quarters  of  an  hour.  They  are  both  very  hopelessly  far 
gone,  the  two  poor  innocents!" 

"Both?  But  it  is  preposterous,  incredible!  Dearest 
friend,  you  do  not  say  to  me  both — not  both?"  Adrian 
cried,  in  a  rising  scale  of  heated  protest. 

To  which  Anastasia,  hailing  these  symptoms  of  mili- 
tant jealousy  as  altogether  healthy,  replied  genially, 
taking  his  arm : 

"  If  you  doubt  my  word,  come  and  judge  for  yourself." 

Lewis  Byewater,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  leaned 
his  limp  height  against  one  of  the  few  wall-spaces  un- 
incrusted  with  pictures,  mirrors,  china  and  other  liberal 
confusion  of  ornament.  Madame  St.  Leger  stood  near 
him,  smoothing  out  the  wrinkles  in  the  wrists  of  her  long 
gloves.  To  Adrian,  as  he  entered  the  room,  her  charm- 
ing person  presented  itself  in  profile.  He  perceived,  and 
this  gave  him  a  curious  turn  in  the  blood,  half  of  subtle 
alarm,  half  of  high  promise,  that  she  once  more  wore 
colors. 

Anastasia  Beauchamp  felt  his  arm  tremble. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured,  "a  certain  enchanting  woman 
puts  on  her  armor  and  takes  the  field  again.  Believe 
me,  it  is  time,  high  time,  you  came  back!" 

"You  are  so  very  good  to  try  to  spare  me  the  pain  of 
making  Mr.  Stacpole  a  refusal,"  Gabrielle  was  saying 
sweetly  to  the  young  American.     "But  you  do  always 

454 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

show  yourself  so  very  amiable,  so  thoughtful.  I  think 
your  countrymen  are  of  the  most-how  do  you  say  ?-the 
most  unselfish  of  any—'*  y' 

Turning  her  head-"  Ah !"  she  exclaimed,  quite  sharp- 
ly, living  red  leaping  into  the  round  of  her  cheeks  and 
living  light  into  her  eyes— "it  is  you,  Mr.  Savage  ?" 

But  even  while  the  answering  light  leaped  into  Adrian's 
eyes,  very  effectually  for  the  moment  dissipating  their 
melancholy,  her  expression  hardened,  becoming  mock- 
ing and  ironic. 

u  You  have  the  pleasure  to  know  my  kind  friend,  M 
Byewater?"  she  asked,  with  a  graceful  wave  of  the  hand 
toward  that  excellent  youth,  who  had  ceased  to  lounge 
against  the  wall  and  stood  rather  anxiously  upright,  the 
blankness  of  unexpected  discomfiture  upon  his  ingenu- 
ous countenance. 

"  Incontestably  I  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  M. 
Byewater,"  Adrian  replied.  "  I  have  also  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  reading,  and  further,  of  publishing,  two  of  his  a 
little — yes,  I  fear,  perhaps  just  a  little— lengthy  arti- 
cles." 

"  I  did  condense  all  I  knew,"  Byewater  put  in  ruefully, 
addressing  his  hostess.  "But  I  presume  I  was  over- 
weighted by  the  amount  of  my  material." 

"Quite  so;  and  the  whole  secret  both  of  style  and  of 
holding  your  reader's  attention  lies  in  selection,  in  the 
intuitive  knowledge  of  what  to  leave  out,"  Adrian  de- 
clared, his  eyes  fixed  with  positively  ferocious  jealousy 
upon  la  belle  Gabrielle's  partially  averted  face. 

That  poor,  inoffensive  Byewater  should  receive  this 
public  roasting  was  flagrantly  unjust,  Anastasia  felt, 
still  she  abstained  from  intervention.  The  silence  which 
followed  was  critical.  She  refused  to  break  it.  The 
responsibility  of  doing  so  appeared  to  her  too  great. 
One  or  other  of  the  two  principal  actors  in  the  little  scene 
must  undertake  that.  She  really  couldn't.  At  last, 
coldly,  unwilling,  as  though  forced  against  her  inclination 

455 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

to  speak,  Madame  St.  Leger,  turning  to  Adrian  Savage, 
said: 

"It  is  long  since  we  have  any  news  of  him.  How  is 
M.  Dax?" 

Adrian  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  have  not  heard,  chere  Madame,"  he  replied. 

Whereupon  Miss  Beauchamp,  satisfied  that,  whether 
for  good  or  ill,  relations  were  safely  established  be- 
tween this  altogether  dear  and  not  a  little  perverse 
young  couple,  called  cheerfully  to  the  American 
youth. 

"Come  here,  come  here,  Mr.  Byewater.  I  have  hardly 
had  one  word  with  you  all  this  afternoon,  and  there  is 
something  I  greatly  wish  to  ask  you.  What  is  this 
that  I  hear  about  our  good,  clever  Mr.  Stacpole's  leaving 
for  New  York?" 

"  It  is  so,  Miss  Beauchamp.  Lenty  is  fairly  through 
with  the  work  for  his  winter  exhibition,  and  he  looks  to 
start  the  first  of  the  month." 

"But  I  do  not  comprehend  how  it  is  you  do  not  bring 
any  news  of  M.  Dax.  Have  you  not  then  been  with  him 
all  the  time  since  we  have  last  seen  you?" 

"I  have  been  abroad,"  Adrian  replied.  "My  cousin, 
of  whom  you  may  remember  to  have  heard  me  speak — 
Joanna  Smyrthwaite — " 

He  hesitated,  and  his  companion,  though  stoutly 
resolved  against  all  yielding  and  pity  in  his  direction, 
could  not  but  note  the  melancholy  and  extreme  pallor  of 
his  handsome  face. 

"But  certainly  I  remember,"  she  returned  rather  has- 
tily. "Is  she  ill,  then,  poor  lady,  one  of  those  pensive 
abstractions  whom  it  has  been  your  interesting  mission 
to  materialize  and  rejuvenate?" 

"  She  is  no  longer  ill,"  he  answered.     "  She  is  dead." 

"Ah!  quel  malheur  inattendu!  Truly  that  is  most 
sad,"  Gabrielle  said  in  accents  of  concern.  Then  for  a 
moment  she  looked  at  Adrian  with  a  very  singular  ex- 

456 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

pression.  "  I  offer  you  my  sympathy,  my  condolences, 
Mr.  Savage,  upon  this  unhappy  event." 

And,  turning  aside,  she  began  to  move  toward  the 
doorway  of  the  outer  room,  upon  the  threshold  of  which 
her  hostess  stood  talking  to  Byewater. 

But  Adrian  arrested  her  impetuously. 

"  Stay,  Madame!"  he  cried,  joining  his  hands  as  in  sup- 
plication. "Stay,  I  implore  you,  and  permit  me  a  few 
minutes'  conversation.  By  this  you  will  confer  the 
greatest  benefit  upon  me;  for  so,  and  so  only,  can  mis- 
understandings and  misconstructions  be  avoided." 

Thus  admonished,  Gabrielle  paused.  Her  aspect  and 
bearing  were  reserved,  as  those  of  one  who  yields  in 
obedience  to  good  manners  rather  than  to  personal 
inclination.  But  Adrian,  nothing  daunted,  followed  up 
his  advantage. 

"I  came  here  to-day,  chere  Madame,"  he  said,  "as 
soon  as  possible  after  my  return.  My  idea  was  to  con- 
sult our  friend  Miss  Beauchamp,  to  ask  her  advice  and 
enlist  her  assistance.  I  feared  my  conduct  might  have 
appeared  erratic,  inexplicable.  I  proposed  begging  her 
to  act  as  my  ambassadress,  asking  her  to  recount  to  you 
certain  things  which  have  taken  place  since  we  parted  at 
Ste.  Marie — things  very  grievous,  in  a  way  unexampled 
and  unnatural.  But  as  I  have  the  good  fortune  to  find 
you  here,  I  entreat  you  to  wait  and  hear  me  while  I 
acquaint  you  with  those  occurrences  myself.  You  will 
remain,  yes  ?  Let  us  go  over  there  then,  out  of  earshot 
of  the  insupportably  recurrent  Mr.  Byewater.  I  need 
to  speak  to  you  alone,  chere  Madame,  without  frivolous 
interruptions.  And  Mr.  Byewater  is  forever  at  hand. 
He  annoys  me.  He  is  so  very  far  from  decorative.^  He 
reminds  me  of  a  fish— of  an  underdone  filet  de  sole." 

Madame  St.  Leger's  reserve  gave  slightly. 

"Unhappy  Mr.  Byewater!"  she  murmured. 

"Yes,  indeed  unhappy,  since  you  too  observe  the 
likeness,"  Adrian  pursued,  darting  positively  envenomed 

457 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

glances  in  the  direction  of  the  doorway.  "Yet  is  it  not 
unpardonable  in  any  man  to  resemble  the  insufficiently 
fried  section  of  a  flat  fish  ?  You  recognize  it  as  unpar- 
donable ?  Sit  down  here  then,  tres  chcre  Madame,  at  the 
farthest  distance  possible  from  that  lanky  poisson 
d'Ame'rique.  Ah!  I  am  grateful  to  you,"  he  added,  with 
very  convincing  earnestness.  "For  in  listening  you  will 
help  to  dissipate  the  blackness  of  regret  which  engulfs 
me.  You  will  hear  and  you  will  judge;  yes,  it  is  for  you, 
for  you  only  and  supremely  to  do  that — to  judge." 

"I  fear  you  will  be  no  end  fatigued,  Miss  Beauchamp, 
standing  all  this  long  time  talking,"  the  excellent,  and, 
fortunately,  quite  unconscious  Byewater  was  meanwhile 
saying.  "I  believe  I  ought  to  go  right  now.  I  had 
promised  myself  I  would  escort  Madame  St.  Leger  home 
to  the  Quai  Malaquais.  But  I  don't  believe  I  stand  to 
gain  anything  by  waiting.  Recent  developments  hardly 
favor  the  supposition  that  promise  is  likely  to  condense 
into  fact." 

He  nodded  his  head,  indicating  the  couple  ensconced 
at  the  opposite  end  of  the  room  in  two  pillowed,  cane- 
seated,  cane-backed  gilt  chairs  of  pseudo-classic  pattern. 
The  wall  immediately  behind  them  carried  a  broad,  tall 
panel  of  looking-glass,  the  border  of  which  blossomed  on 
either  side  at  about  half  its  height  into  a  cluster  of 
shaded  electric  lamps.  The  mellow  light  from  these 
covered  the  perfectly  finished  figures  of  the  young  man 
and  woman,  sitting  there  in  such  close  proximity,  and 
created  a  bright  circle  about  them,  as  Anastasia  Beau- 
champ  noted,  curiously  isolating  them  from  all  sur- 
rounding objects  save  their  own  graceful  images  repeated 
in  the  great  looking-glass.  Her  eyes  dwelt  upon  them  in 
indulgent  tenderness.  Might  they  prosper!  And  there- 
with, very  genially,  she  turned  her  attention  to  the  fish- 
like Byewater  once  more. 

But  that  same  bright  isolation  and  close  proximity 
worked  strongly  upon  Gabrielle  St.  Leger.     Her  pulse 

458 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

quickened.  A  subtle  excitement  took  possession  of  her, 
which,  just  because  of  her  anxiety  to  ignore  and  conceal 
it,  obliged  her  to  speak. 

"  Your  cousin's  death  has  evidently  pained  you.  You 
mourn  her  very  truly,  very  much?" 

"I  cannot  mourn  enough." 

"Indeed!"  she  said,  dwelling  upon  the  word  with  a 
peculiar  and  slightly  incredulous  inflection. 

"  No,"  he  repeated,  "  I  cannot  mourn  enough.  But  to 
make  my  state  of  mind  intelligible  to  you — and  it  is 
vitally  important  to  me  to  do  so — it  is  necessary  you 
should  know  what  has  happened.  I  cannot  deny  that  I 
am  very  sad." 

He  bowed  himself  together,  setting  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  pressing  his  hands  against  either  side  of  his  head. 

"I  have  cause  to  be  sad,"  he  continued.  "Involun- 
tarily I  have  contributed  to  the  commission  of  a  crime. 
All  the  values  are  altered.  I  am  become  a  stranger 
to  myself.  Therefore  I  ask  just  this  of  you,  to  hear  me 
and  to  judge." 

Surprised,  impressed,  alarmed  even,  Gabrielle  St. 
Leger  gathered  herself  back  gravely  in  her  gilded,  long- 
seated  pseudo-classic  chair.  The  young  man's  genuine 
and  undisguised  trouble  combined  with  his  actual  phys- 
ical nearness  to  threaten  her  emotional  equilibrium. 
More  eagerly  than  she  cared  to  admit  even  to  herself 
had  she  looked  forward  to  his  return  to  Ste.  Marie.  Her 
disappointment  was  proportionate,  causing  her  anger. 
The  thought  of  the  slight  he  had  put  upon  her  rankled. 
She  was,  or  rather  wished  to  be,  angry  still.  But  just 
now  wishes  and  feeling  ranged  themselves  in  irritating 
opposition  and  conflict.  And  during  the  silence  follow- 
ing his  last  strangely  sorrowful  and  self-accusing  words — 
he  so  very  near  to  her,  dejected,  abstracted,  with  bent 
head — feeling  gained,  waxing  masterful  and  intimate. 
The  personal  charm  of  the  man,  his  distinction  of  appear- 
ance, his  quick  brain  and  eloquent  speech,  his  unim- 

30  459 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

peachable  sincerity,  his  virility — refined,  but  in  no  degree 
impaired  by  the  artificial  conditions  of  modern  life — 
even  his  boyish  outbreak  of  jealousy  toward  Lewis  Eye- 
water, stirred  and  agitated  her,  proving  dangerous  alike 
to  her  senses  and  her  heart.  The  culminating  moment 
of  that  terrible  experience  in  Rene"  Dax's  studio,  when, 
half  beside  herself  from  the  horror  of  madness  and  death, 
she  had  flung  herself  upon  Adrian's  breast,  there  finding 
safety  and  restoration  to  all  the  dear  joys  of  living, 
presented  itself  to  her  memory  with  importunate  in- 
sistence. Was  it  conceivable  that  she  craved  to  have 
that  moment  repeat  itself  ? 

"Mr.  Savage — you  asked  me  to  listen.  I  listen,"  she 
said,  and  her  voice  shook. 

In  response  the  young  man  looked  up  at  her,  a  rather 
pitiful  smile  on  his  white  face. 

"Thank  you — it  was  like  this,  then,  chere  Madame  et 
amie,"  he  said.  "Pushed  by  certain  sinister  fears, 
without  waiting  to  communicate  with  you  or  with  any 
one,  I  went  straight  to  England  on  receiving  from  her 
sister  the  announcement  of  my  cousin's  death.  Letters 
had  passed  between  us  during  the  previous  fortnight 
which  rendered  that  announcement  peculiarly  and 
acutely  distressing  to  me." 

Adrian  bent  his  head  again  and  sat  staring  blindly  at 
the  floor. 

"She  had  asked  a  pledge  of  me  which  neither  in  honor 
nor  in  honesty  could  I  give,"  he  said,  bitterly.  "My 
cousin  was  an  admirable  woman  of  business.  I  knew 
that  all  her  worldly  affairs  were  scrupulously  regulated. 
I  was  in  no  way  concerned  in  the  distribution  of  her 
property.  I  went  to  attend  her  funeral  as  a  tribute  of 
regard  and  respect.  I  also  went  in  the  hope  the  sinister 
fears  of  which  I  have  spoken  might  prove  unfounded. 
I  stayed  in  London,  merely  going  down  to  Stourmouth 
for  a  few  hours.  It  was  a  wretched,  wretched  day,  the 
weather  cold  and  wet." 

460 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

He  ceased  speaking.  For  at  this  moment— whether 
through  some  inward  compelling,  some  mental  necessity 
to  arrive  at  a  just  and  comprehensive  estimate  of  the 
history  of  the  last  eight  months,  or  whether  through 
some  external  influence  emanating  from  the  unseen 
world  of  spirit  and  striving  to  dominate  and  coerce  him, 
he  could  neither  then,  nor  afterward,  determine — the 
whole  gloomy  affaire  Smyrthwaite,  in  its  entirety,  from 
start  to  finish,  presented  itself  to  his  mind.  The  slightly 
bizarre  yet  charming  room,  its  crowded  furniture,  sub- 
dued gaiety  of  lights  and  flowers,  even  Gabrielle  St. 
Leger's  well-beloved  and  ardently  desired  presence, 
became  strangely  unreal  to  him  and  remote;  while  his 
mind  fixed  itself  in  turn  upon  the  autocratic,  self-cen- 
tered husband  and  father  warping  the  lives  of  wife  and 
children  in  obedience  to  cold-blooded  theory;  upon  the 
interruption  of  his  own  work,  and  prosecution  of  his  fair 
romance,  by  the  tedious  labors  of  the  executorship;  of 
his  long  fruitless  search  amid  the  filth  of  the  Paris  under- 
world for  the  wastrel  degenerate,  Bibby;  of  the  squalid 
rinding,  the  still  more  squalid  redisappearance  of  the 
wretched  fellow,  and  the  disquieting  uncertainty  which 
even  now  covered  his  whereabouts  and  his  fate;  and 
lastly,  with  sharp  inward  shrinking,  upon  the  commence- 
ment, the  progress,  the  extinction,  of  Joanna's  infatua- 
tion for  himself. 

And  as  sum  total  and  result  what  remained  ?  What 
was  there  to  show  in  the  way  of  harvest  for  all  that 
strenuous  and  painful  sowing?  Only  this — that  now, 
very  strangely,  he  himself  at  once  participant  and  specta- 
tor, he  saw  in  the  mournful  chill  of  the  rain-swept  Sep- 
tember day  a  dark,  straggling,  ill-assorted  procession 
passing  up  a  trampled,  puddle-pocketed  road  between 
ranks  of  pale  and  vulgarly  commonplace  monuments  set 
against  a  backing  of  somber  fir-trees  and  heather.  Mar- 
garet Smyrthwaite,  composed,  callous,  and  comely, 
swathed  in  abundance  of  brand-new  crape,  walked  beside 

461 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

him,  immediately  behind  a  coffin — the  hard,  polished  lines 
of  which  were  unsoftened  by  pall  or  by  flowers — carried 
shoulder  high.  The  big  Yorkshireman,  Andrew  Merri- 
man,  followed  in  company  with  Joseph  Chal loner — the 
latter  oddly  subdued  and  nervous,  obsequious  even  in 
bearing  and  in  speech.  Next  came  fussy  little  Colonel 
Haig,  Doctor  Norbiton,  and  the  amazon  Marion  Chase. 
A  contingent  of  servants  from  the  Tower  House,  headed 
by  Smallbridge,  the  butler;  Johnson,  the  portly  coach- 
man, and  Mrs.  Isherwood,  brought  up  the  rear.  Isher- 
wood,  alone  of  the  company,  wept,  silently  but  heart- 
brokenly,  mourning  not  only  a  mistress  who  was  to  her 
as  a  daughter,  but  the  passing  of  an  order  of  things 
which  had  filled  and  molded  her  life  and  in  the  service 
of  which  she  had  grown  old.  To  Adrian  the  faithful 
woman's  tears  supplied  the  one  sincere  and  human  note 
in  the  otherwise  cruelly  barren  and  perfunctory  perform- 
ance. And,  to  his  seeing,  her  desolation  found  sym- 
pathetic echo  in  the  desolation  of  the  autumn  moorland, 
of  the  bare  coffin,  and  the.  gray  curtain  of  drifting  mist 
blotting  out  the  distance — the  vast  amphitheater  of  the 
Baughurst  Park  woods,  the  streets  and  buildings  of 
Stourmouth,  and  all  the  noble  freedom  of  the  sea.  The 
hopelessness  of  that  desolation  clutched  at  him  still, 
penetrating  him,  even  now  and  here,  with  conviction  of 
failure  and  futility,  with  doubt  of  any  eternal  and  rea- 
soned direction  and  purpose  in  things  human,  and  with 
very  searching  doubt  of  himself.  His  fine  and  healthy 
optimism — in  other  words,  his  faith  in  God's  goodness — 
suffered  bitter  eclipse. 

"I  would  not  be  surprised  if  I  concluded  to  take  the 
trip  with  Lenty  the  first  of  the  month,  Miss  Beau- 
champ." 

As  he  spoke  Lewis  Byewater's  mild  and  honest  eyes, 
half  humorously,  half  reproachfully,  sought  the  delight- 
ful young  man  and  young  woman  sitting  silent  in  their 
gilded  chairs. 

462 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"I  am  ever  so  grateful  to  you  for  all  the  splendid 
times  you  have  given  me,"  he  continued,  rather  irrele- 
vantly; "but  I  begin  to  have  a  notion  it  would  prove 
healthier  for  me  to  leave  Paris  this  fall." 

Again  his  eyes  sought  the  silent  couple  enthroned  be- 
fore the  tall  mirror. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  feel  pretty  confident  I  will  accom- 
pany Lenty.  Seems  as  though  this  gay  city  had  turned 
ever  so  lonesome  and  foreign  to-night.  Europe  is 
enervating  for  a  continuance.  I  know  others  who  have 
found  it  affect  them  that  way.  There  is  too  much 
atmosphere  over  here.  I  have  a  notion  my  moral  system 
is  in  need  of  toning  up ;  and  I  believe  our  bright  Ameri- 
can climate  might  help  me  some  if  I  took  a  spell  of  it." 

Madame  St.  Leger  threw  back  her  head  and  loosened 
the  lace  scarf  about  her  rounded  throat. 

"Return,  Mr.  Savage.  Again  I  remind  you  that  I 
wait  to  hear  that  which  you  ask  to  tell  me,  that  I  listen. 
Return,  lest  I  grow  too  impatient  of  waiting,"  she  said. 
Adrian  straightened  himself.  His  looked  dazed, 
absorbed.  He  passed  his  hands  across  his  eyes  and  fore- 
head, as  one  who  awakens  from  a  feverish  sleep. 

"  Ah !  forgive  me,  chere  Madame"  he  answered.  "  But 
that  is  precisely  what  I  need,  what  I  desire — just  that — 
to  return,  to  come  back;  and  to  come  back  by  your 
invitation,  at  your  calling.  I  ask  nothing  better,  noth- 
ing else." 

He  spread  out  his  hands,  leaning  sideways  in  his  chair, 
looking  at  her. 

"Forgive  me.  I  am  very  stupid,  incoherent;  but  the 
events  of  the  last  three  weeks  are  still  so  vividly  present 
to  me  that  they  confuse  and  distract  me.  I  cannot  see 
my  way  clearly.  I  find  it  difficult  to  tell  you  what  is 
necessary,  just  what  I  should.  See,  then,  it  had  been  the 
habit  of  my  cousin  to  keep  a  journal  daily  from  early 
childhood.  The  last  volume  of  that  journal  she  had, 
I  found,  left  as  a  legacy  to  me.     Her  sister  gave  it  to  me 

463 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

after  the  funeral.  I  took  it  back  with  me  to  London. 
The  night  was  wet,  and  I  was  in  no  humor  for  amuse- 
ment. I  remained  indoors,  in  my  room  at  the  hotel. 
The  sinister  fears  which  I  entertained  in  connection  with 
my  cousin's  death  had  not  been  allayed  by  my  visit  to 
Stourmouth.  A  certain  mystery  appeared  to  surround 
the  circumstances  attending  it.  I  perceived  a  great 
unwillingness  to  answer  my  inquiries  on  the  part  of 
those  most  nearly  concerned.  That  night,  after  dinner, 
I  opened  the  packet  containing  the  journal,  unwillingly, 
I  own;  I  would  rather  have  delayed.  But  I  could  not  do 
so.  With  the  muffled  roar  of  the  ceaseless  London 
traffic  in  my  ears  I  sat  and  read  the  journal  from  cover 
to  cover.  Having  once  begun,  I  could  not  leave  off. 
I  did  not  go  to  bed  that  night.  In  the  morning  early 
I  left  London.  I  left  England.  I  traveled.  I  hardly 
know  where  I  went,  Madame.  I  wanted  to  escape.  I 
wanted  to  get  away  from  every  person  I  knew,  whom  I 
had  ever  seen.  Above  all  I  wanted  to  get  away  from 
myself;  but  I  was  obliged  to  take  myself  along  with  me. 
And  I  found  myself  a  dreadful  companion.  I  hated 
myself." 

Madame  St.  Leger  moved  slightly  in  her  gilded  chair. 

"My  poor  friend!"  she  murmured  almost  inaudibly. 

"Yes,  I  hated  myself,"  Adrian  repeated.  "That 
journal  is  the  most  poignant,  the  most  convincing  human 
document  I  have  ever  read.  My  cousin  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  love  a  person  who  did  not  return  her  affection. 
In  the  pages  of  her  journal,  with  uncompromising  truth- 
fulness, with  appalling  self-scrutiny,  self-revelation  and 
unflinching  courage,  with,  I  may  add,  the  amazing 
abandon  possible  only  to  a  rigidly  virtuous  woman,  she 
has  recorded  the  successive  phases  of  that  love,  from  its 
first  unsuspected  and  almost  unconscious  inception  to 
the  hour  when  by  an  act  of  will,  so  extraordinary  as  to  be 
little  short  of  miraculous,  she  sent  her  soul  out  of  her 
body,  across  land  and  sea,  in  pursuit  of  the  man  whom 

464 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

she  loved  and  forced  from  his  own  lips  the  confession  of 
his  indifference  to  her." 

Again  Madame  St.  Leger  moved  slightly. 

"You  tell  me  this  soberly,  Mr.  Savage?"  she  asked 
"In  good  faith?" 

Adrian  looked  fixedly  at  her.  Her  beautiful  face,  her 
whole  attitude,  was  tense  with  excitement. 

"In  absolute  good  faith,  Madame,"  he  replied.  "I 
have  not  only  the  detailed  testimony  of  her  journal,  but 
the  perfectly  independent  and  equally  detailed  testi- 
mony of  the  person  whom  she  loved.  The  two  state- 
ments agree  in  every  particular." 

"Still,"  Gabrielle  cried,  a  sudden  yearning  in  her  eyes, 
"still  I  cannot  count  her  as  altogether  unfortunate, 
your  poor  cousin !  For  it  is  not  given  to  many — it  is  the 
mark  of  a  very  strong,  a  very  great  nature,  to  be  capable 
of  such  love.  And  when  she  had  obtained  this  man's 
confession?" 

"She  decided  to  live  no  longer,"  Adrian  replied 
hoarsely.  "She  had  no  religion,  no  faith  in  Almighty 
God  or  in  the  survival  of  human  personality  and  con- 
sciousness, no  hope  of  a  hereafter,  to  restrain  her  from 
taking  her  own  life.  She  made  her  preparations  calmly 
and  silently,  with  the  dignity  of  sincere  and  very  im- 
pressive stoicism.  The  concluding  words  of  the  terrible 
book,  in  which  she  has  dissected  out  all  the  passion  and 
agony  of  her  heart,  of  her  poor  tortured  body  as  well  as 
her  poor  tortured  soul,  are  words  of  pity,  of  tenderness, 
toward  the  man  who  found  himself  unable  to  return  her 
affection." 

For  a  time  both  remained  silent,  while  in  the  outer 
room  Miss  Beauchamp  bade  a  genial  farewell  to  the 
disconsolate  Byewater. 

"Yes,  go,  my  dear  young  man,  go,"  she  said,  "and 
breathe  the  surprising  air  of  your  very  surprising  native 
land.  I  shall  miss  you.  But  I  understand  the  position, 
and  give  you  my  blessing.     Later  you  will  return  to  us — 

465 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

for  Europe  is  full  of  illumination  and  of  instruction. 
You  will  return,  and,  be  very  sure,  we  shall  all  be  de- 
lighted to  see  you.  Be  sure,  also,  that  you  leave  an 
altogether  pleasant  and  friendly  reputation  behind  you." 

"But,  but,"  Gabrielle  said,  presently,  with  a  certain 
protest  and  hesitancy,  "it  pains,  it  angers  me  to  think  of 
so  great  a  waste.  For  it  is  no  ordinary  thing,  the  be- 
stowal by  any  woman  of  so  magnificent  a  gift  of  love. 
That  a  woman,  young  and  rich,  should  die  for  love — and 
now,  at  the  present  time,  when  our  interest  moves 
quickly  from  person  to  person,  when  we  console  ourselves 
easily  with  some  new  occupation,  new  friendship,  when 
our  morals  are  perhaps  a  little — how  do  you  say  ? — easy, 
is  it  not  particularly  surprising,  is  it  not,  indeed,  unique  ? 
To  reject  such  affection,  is  not  that  to  throw  away, 
in  a  sense,  a  positive  fortune?  How  could  such  devo- 
tion fail  to  attract,  fail  to  create  a  response?  Why, 
Monsieur,  could  not  this  man  of  whom  you  tell  me 
return  your  cousin's  great  love?" 

Adrian  Savage  spread  out  his  hands  with  a  gesture 
at  once  hopeless  and  singularly  appealing. 

"Because,  Madame,  because  the  man  already  loved 
you,"  he  said.  "  And,  that  being  so,  for  him  there  could 
be  no  possible  room,  no  conceivable  question,  of  any 
other  love." 

Madame  St.  Leger  remained  absolutely  motionless, 
expressionless,  for  a  moment;  then  she  threw  back  her 
head,  closing  her  eyes.  "Ah!"  she  sighed,  sharply. 
"Ah!" 

And  Adrian  waited,  watching  her,  a  sudden  keenness 
in  his  face.  For  what,  indeed,  did  it  betoken,  where  did 
it  lead  to,  this  praise  and  advocacy  of  Joanna  Smyrth- 
waite's  tragic  devotion,  followed  by  that  singularly 
unrestrained  and  unconventional  little  outcry?  The 
said  outcry  struck  right  through  him,  giving  him  a  queer 
turn  in  the  blood — carrying  him  back  in  sentiment, 
moreover,  to   the   horrible    yet    perfect    experience   in 

466 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

Rene  Dax's  studio,  when  he  had  felt  the  whole  weight 
of  Gabrielle's  beloved  body  flung  against  him  and  the 
clasp  of  her  arms  about  his  neck.  He  straightened  him- 
self, took  a  deep  breath,  his  nostrils  dilated,  his  lips 
parted.  He  emerged  from  the  confusion  and  lethargy 
which  had  oppressed  him,  quickened  by  that  same  out- 
cry into  newness  and  fullness  of  life.  To  him  all  this 
was  as  the  drawing  aside  of  some  gloomy,  jealously  im- 
penetrable curtain — the  curtain  of  desolate  gray  mist, 
was  it,  blotting  out  the  distance,  the  town,  the  great 
woods,  and  the  noble  freedom  of  the  sea,  when  he  walked 
in  that  ill-assorted  funeral  procession  up  the  wet  road 
behind  Joanna's  coffin  ? — a  drawing  of  it  aside  and  letting 
the  glad  and  wholesome  sunlight  shine  on  him  once 
more.  He  no  longer  felt  a  stranger  to  himself.  The 
past — all  which  had  happened,  all  which  went  to  shape 
his  character  and  inspire  his  action,  all  which  he  had 
desired  and  held  infinitely  dear  before  the  affaire  Smyrth- 
waite  imposed  itself  upon  him — linked  up  with  the 
present,  in  sane  and  intelligible  sequence  of  cause  and 
effect.  Thus,  chastened,  it  is  true,  a  little  older,  sadder, 
wiser,  but  fearless,  ardent,  purposeful  as  ever,  did 
Adrian  the  Magnificent  come  into  his  own  again. 

He  drew  nearer  to  her,  laid  his  right  arm  somewhat 
possessively  upon  the  arm  of  Madame  St.  Leger's  chair, 
and  spoke  softly,  yet  with  much  of  his  former 
impetuosity. 

"See,  chere  Madame,  see,"  he  said;  "do  you  perhaps 
remember,  this  winter,  in  the  week  of  the  great  snow, 
when  I  came  to  tell  you  I  was  summoned  to  my  cousins' 
home  in  England?  You  were  not  quite,  quite  kind. 
You  mocked  me  a  little,  suggesting  a  solution  of  the 
problems  raised  by  my  impending  visit.  The  solution 
you  proposed  was,  as  I  ventured  to  explain  to  you, 
impossible  then.  It  remained  impossible  to  the  end,  the 
cruel  end,  and  for  the  same  reason." 

His  manner  changed.     His  voice  deepened. 
467 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"Yet,  believe  me,  when  by  degrees,  against  my  will, 
against  my  respect  for  my  cousin  and  sincere  desire  for 
her  happiness,  the  fact  of  her  unfortunate  partiality  was 
brought  home  to  me,  I  tried  with  all  my  strength  to 
command  my  heart.  Twice  I  faced  the  situation  with- 
out reserve,  and  tried  to  submit,  to  sacrifice  myself, 
rather  than  cause  her  humiliation  and  distress." 

Adrian  looked  away  across  the  crowded,  pleasant 
room,  with  its  scent  of  autumn  flowers,.cedar,  and  sandal- 
wood, and  its  many  shaded  lights.  His  lips  worked,  but 
at  first  no  sound  passed  them. 

"I  could  not  do  it,"  he  said.  "I  could  not.  I  loved 
you  too  much." 

He  raised  his  hand  from  the  arm  of  la  belle  Gabrielle's 
chair,  turning  proudly  upon  her,  as  a  man  who  on  his  trial 
fiercely  protests  his  own  innocence. 

"  I  had  given  her  no  cause  for  her  disastrous  delusion — 
before  God,  Madame,  I  had  not.  And  my  passion,  too, 
has  its  authority,  its  unalienable  rights.  I  could  not, 
I  dared  not,  betray  them.  It  may  be  that  the  happiness 
to  which  I  aspire  will  never  be  granted  me.  Very 
well.  I  shall  suffer,  but  I  shall  know  how  to  ac- 
commodate myself.  But  to  cut  myself  off  voluntarily 
from  all  hope  of  that  happiness  by  marriage  with  another 
woman  was  like  asking  me  to  mutilate  myself.  I  re- 
fused. Could  the  situation  repeat  itself,  I  should  again 
refuse,  although  when  I  read  her  terrible  journal  and 
learned  the  reason  of  my  cousin's  suicide  I  was  con- 
sumed by  remorse,  by  grief  and  self-reproach." 

Adrian  paused. 

"  Now  I  have  told  you  everything,  Madame,"  he  added, 
quietly.  "  I  leave  myself  in  your  hands.  It  is  for  you 
to  condemn  or  to  acquit  me,  to  judge  whether  I  have 
behaved  as  an  honorable  man,  whether  I  have  done 
right." 

After  a  silence,  a  pathetic  bewilderment  in  her  mys- 
terious eyes,  Gabrielle  St.  Leger  answered  brokenly: 

468 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  know.  I  cannot  presume 
to  judge.  What  you  tell  me  is  all  so  difficult,  so  sad- 
only  I  may  say,  perhaps,  that  I  am  glad  you  did  not 
sacrifice  yourself." 

"You  are  glad?  Then—"  Adrian  stammered,  "then 
you  will  marry  me?" 

"Eh!  but,"  la  belle  Gabrielle  cried,  and  her  voice 
shook,  though  whether  with  tears  or  with  laughter  she 
herself  knew  not," you  go  so  quick,  so  very  quick!" 

"  You  are  mistaken — pardon  me.  I  do  not  go  quick, 
but  slow,  slow  as  the  centuries,  as  aeons,  as  innumerable 
and  cumulative  eternities.  Have  I  not  served  for  you, 
tres  chere  Madame,  a  good  seven  years?" 

"So  long  as  that?" 

"  Yes,  as  long  as  that.  Ever  since  the  day  I  first  saw 
you.  You  had  but  recently  come  to  Paris.  Much  has 
happened — for  both  of  us — since  that  date.  Yes,  I  can 
still  describe  to  you  the  gown  you  wore,  the  manner  in 
which  your  hair  was  dressed,  can  recall  the  subjects  of 
our  conversation,  can  repeat  the  words  which  you  said." 

Madame  St.  Leger  gathered  herself  back  in  her  gilded 
chair,  her  head  bent.  For  a  quite  perceptible  space  of 
time  she  remained  absolutely  still.  The  inclination  of 
her  head  and  the  shadow  cast  by  the  brim  of  her  hat 
concealed  her  face.  Adrian's  heart  thumped  in  his  ears. 
His  breath  came  short  and  thick.  At  last  he  could  bear 
the  suspense  no  longer.     He  leaned  forward  again. 

"Madame,  Madame,"  he  called  softly,  urgently, 
"  think  of  the  seven  years.  Remember  that  I  am  young 
and  that  I  am  on  fire,  since  I  love  as  the  young  love. 
Do  not  prolong  my  trial.  Give  me  my  answer — yes  or 
no — now,  here,  at  once." 

Thus  adjured,  Madame  St.  Leger  raised  her  head, 
looked  full  at  him  with  wide-open  eyes,  something  pro- 
found, exalted,  in  a  way  desperate,  in  her  expression. 
She  shivered  slightly,  and  holding  out  both  her  hands: 
"  I  surrender,"  she  said. 

469 


ADRIAN    SAVAGE 

The  young  man  took  her  extended  hands  in  his,  bent 
down  and  kissed  them  reverently;  then  looked  back  at 
her  gravely,  resolutely,  though  he  was  white  to  the  lips. 

"But  not  under  compulsion,  not  out  of  pity?"  he  said. 
"Now,  even  now,  with  the  consummation  of  all  my 
hopes  and  desire  within  my  grasp,  I  would  rather  you 
sent  me  away  than,  than — that — " 

La  belle  Gabrielle  shook  her  head  gently,  smiling. 

"No,  no,"  she  answered.  "Not  under  compulsion, 
not  out  of  pity,  rnon  ami;  but  because  I  rind  nature  is  too 
strong  for  me.  Because  I  find  I  too  love,  and  find — 
since  you  will  have  me  lay  bare  my  heart  and  tell  you 
everything — it  is  you,  precisely  and  solely  you,  whom  I 
love." 

And  from  the  inner  room — into  which  Anastasia 
Beauchamp  had  passed  unperceived  by  her  two  guests 
during  this,  for  them,  momentous  colloquy — came  strains 
of  heroic  music,  good  for  the  soul. 


THB   END 


■■■■wniiiiiii 
A    000  127  776 


